The Ghost of You
by CosmosisJane
Summary: The Winter Soldier/James "Bucky" Barnes x Mutant!Reader. You have been conscripted into the search for Bucky Barnes by Captain America himself several months after the catastrophe at the Triskelion. What you initially think will be a brief involvement turns into a struggle beyond your wildest imaginings once you manage to track down the elusive Winter Soldier...
1. Chapter 1

"Farewells can be shattering, but returns are surely worse. Solid flesh can never live up to the bright shadow cast by its absence."  
-Margaret Atwood, _The Blind Assassin_

* * *

"No," you reply, taking another sip of the pitch black espresso set out on the table.

"You haven't even looked at the list of—"

"Westchester—our school_—_is no place for your agents, however assured of their loyalty you may be. We work with children; troubled children more often than not."

The drink is bitter, bright, and sharp on your tongue and you can feel the tendrils of caffeine starting to snake through your system. You have to actively resist your body's instinctive reaction to purge what it recognizes as poison.

"S.H.I.E.L.D. is—_was_—very well aware that you're not just running a school up there," the leather-clad man sitting across from you drawls, leaning back in his chair and adjusting his sunglasses. "We know all about your extra-curricular activities."

"Then our rejection of your proposal should make more sense, not less," you retort, placing the delicate cup back on its saucer.

You look away briefly, sucking air in through your teeth. You'd been told to reveal information only as necessary, but you're increasingly convinced that Fury believes he has the upper hand, which is both untrue and terribly annoying.

"Let me tell you what _we_ know. We know that the remaining divisions of S.H.I.E.L.D. are actively pursuing individuals of a particular designation."

"They're not the same as—"

"Oh, I know. We all know that. But you are pursuing them because you feel their very nature—which isn't so terribly different from our own—is a threat. S.H.I.E.L.D. exists, at least in theory, to negate threats."

"All correct, and all widely available knowledge after Romanoff's data dump."

"We didn't need to wait for Black Widow to hang up your dirty laundry in order to catch a whiff of its stink," you shoot back. "What I'm getting at is that precisely no one in Westchester is comfortable with the idea of harboring people who see _us_ as potential threats that require _negating_."

"I take it this comes straight from the Professor?"

"His voice carries the most weight, as I'm sure you understand. But all of us—all of the active members of the team—discussed it together. We're not about to invite the people responsible for locking up—what's the euphemism you use? Enhanced? Gifted?—_Gifted_ individuals as if they're criminals by default, into our home."

There is undoubtedly an undercurrent of thinly veiled hostility flowing between yourself and the former spy. S.H.I.E.L.D. had been operating for years as if it were the leading authority on all things supernatural, extra-terrestrial, and super-human. The sheer hubris of that presumption was enough to garner the ire of those old enough to understand its implications. The fact that HYDRA had been the power behind the throne all along, well, that had come as a bit of a shock.

You consider the man seated across from you. From the intel gathered by your colleagues, Fury had dropped off the grid just before the Triskelion fell, with some reports claiming he was actually KIA. Not long after the disaster over the Potomac, his entire agency was disavowed by the various governments that had once touted it as the planet's best defense against large-scale threats. No one at the school believed for a second that they had been completely dismantled, of course. Even a tarnished blade could prove useful if placed in the right hand, and S.H.I.E.L.D. still had its obvious uses. None of that explained why Fury had surfaced _now _though, months later, to beg shelter for some of his most loyal agents.

You frown and settle on your best guess, which also happens to be the simplest: There is some kind of power struggle going on within whatever is left of the organization, and Fury is trying to keep as many of his people out of the crossfire as possible.

"Look, I understand that you're trying to find your operatives a soft place to land, but we're not the right fit," you offer diplomatically, feeling some of the tension drain away now that you have a better grip on what is actually going on. _Eugh_, spies.

"I appreciate your concerns about integrating agents among school children, but I'm not really interested in Xavier's academic pursuits, to be honest. It's his other resources that've caught my eye. We worked with the Avengers—"

"The Avengers are not mutants," you waggle a finger at him. "Barton isn't even enhanced, and whatever was done to Romanoff, she barely qualifies. Banner is the result of a freak accident—"

"I hear the same can be said of Dr. McCoy…"

"McCoy had active mutations before he started tinkering with his own genetic code," you correct before continuing. "Tony Stark is a _prima donna _Lothario, a rabid technophile, and though he possesses an admittedly staggering IQ, he also has a long history of making truly poor life choices."

Fury chuckles, then scrubs a hand across his face. "Continue."

"Thor is an alien who spends more time off-world than on, has a bit of a temper, and family drama that makes Parent-Guardian Visitation day at Xavier's look like a bloody picnic with the Cleaver family."

"You're not nearly old enough to drop those kinds of references, young lady."

"And then there's the good Captain. If ever there were a man who best represents a powder keg simply waiting to go off, it's Rogers."

Fury shifts in his chair, suddenly uncomfortable. You briefly wonder why he's broadcasting his emotional state so clearly. The man is a spy, so he should be playing all of this close to the chest. It has to be a gambit of some kind, you're just not sure which or why. Perhaps it's simple fatigue.

"Fair enough," he finally concedes, pulling his steepled fingers apart and motioning for the waitress to bring him his check.

"We are sorry for what happened. Moral grey areas aside, all accounts indicate that you were trying to do the right thing for the right reasons. At present, the situation is too… nebulous for us to throw our hat in with yours. We're still trying to keep a low public profile, hoping no one notices us for a bit longer."

"The illusion of safety is only ever an illusion," Fury gently reprimands, handing several bills to the hovering waitress before turning his back to her. You both wait for her to sidle away, out of earshot, before continuing.

"To be honest, I don't disagree with you there, Director. But I am one voice amongst many, and most junior to boot."

"Seniority's a bitch," he smirks.

"When the dust settles, and when all of the restructuring and purging is complete, you know how to reach us," you nod, bringing the cup of espresso back to your lips for one last swallow.

"I doubt it'll be that simple, but I appreciate the gesture."

"Of course it won't be. There'll be conditions if the olive branch is ever extended and not immediately slapped away. Amongst other outstanding issues, that dreadful Index of yours needs to go."

Fury just snorts and shakes his head. "Last I checked, none of your people were on it."

"Yet. None of us are on it _yet_."

He concedes the point before pushing away from the table. You stand as well, accepting the handshake offered.

"Safe travels, to wherever you're headed next," you tell him, canting your head to the side. "I'm that way," you point back over your shoulder, in the vague direction of your bike.

"A moment more, if you don't mind. There's someone else who'd like to talk to you."

You blink, caught off guard, and slowly sit back down. A figure two tables away stands, face cloaked in the shadows of his hoodie, and approaches.

"May I?" he asks, and you immediately recognize the voice.

"Of course, _Captain_…" you grind out, eyes narrowed at Fury as he tries—and fails—to hide his smirk. So that's why he got so cagey when you made your observations about Rogers known.

"My part in this discussion is over," Fury says with a shrug, saluting with two fingers against his brow. "Thank you for your time. We'll be in touch."

"I'm sure you will," you huff, drawing in steadying breath before turning your attention to the super soldier now seated across from you. "What I said earlier—"

"Isn't what I want to talk about," Rogers interrupts with a shake of his head. "Honestly, I've gotten pretty used to everyone offering their opinion on that subject."

He clears his throat and presses his fingers against his temples. He looks haggard and harried in a way you're not accustomed to seeing S.H.I.E.L.D.'s former poster-boy. Even in the footage from the Chitauri invasion, he'd looked hopeful and resilient, despite being thoroughly bloodied.

"What can I do for you, Captain Rogers?" you ask, forcing a gentle quality into your voice that doesn't always come naturally.

He drags his fingers away from his face and leans back in his chair, blowing air out in a sudden _whoosh _that catches the attention of several nearby tables. A few cellphones come out, snapping pictures of the both of you. None of these people would recognize your precious self, but Rogers is a bona fide celebrity. You resist the urge to both cringe and let loose a colorful litany of swear words at the nosy civilians.

"Sorry," he offers, glancing over at the nearest table and throwing a half-hearted smile their way. "I told Fury I'd rather we meet somewhere private."

"Like a dark alley?" you quip. "Public is better. Less chance for someone to do something purposefully stupid."

"Us or you?" he counters, a lopsided smile creasing his face. Genuine, this time, as it reaches his eyes.

You chuckle, running the tip of one finger around the lip of the empty espresso cup. "Both, I suppose."

"This is harder than I expected," he admits, hunching forward, practically looming, though you figure that's more from sheer size than conscious intent.

"You'd better not have a ring in your pocket," you tease. "We've only just met."

This time he does laugh, looking up from beneath long lashes. He seems to consider you for a moment, then nods to himself.

"I need your help. Or at least for you to point me in the direction of someone who can."

"You'll need to be more specific," you prod. "And depending on said specifics, perhaps we should move this conversation elsewhere."

Rogers plops a small, silver rectangular box down on the table. At first, you think it's some kind of StarkTech mobile, but then Rogers fiddles with it and your ears pop. Unable to suppress a hiss of surprise, you feel your body tense, the instinct to prepare for an attack momentarily overwhelming.

"Sorry!" Rogers says, catching the sudden change in your posture. "I should have warned you. It's a sound dampener. Or something. I usually just nod when Tony starts rambling."

You swallow hard and command yourself to be calm. You know that your eyes—always the first to give you away—have likely changed. You blink a few times, waiting for the subtle itch along your corneas to signal that they've reverted to their normal hue.

Rogers is staring.

"Wow. Um. Fury told me, but that's," he stumbles over his words. "Different actually seeing it, I guess."

"Fury doesn't know half so much as he likes to think," you warn, and it isn't an idle boast. The Professor is very good at containing sensitive information, and the fact that the school wasn't exposed when Natasha Romanoff gifted the Internet with all of S.H.I.E.L.D.'s files was proof enough of that.

Rogers clears his throat, "If you don't mind my asking, does that hurt?"

"No," you answer, trying very hard not to take offense to his casual discussion of what you consider a private matter. You drum your fingers on the table, slowly arching an eyebrow at his continued deviation from whatever it is he actually came here to discuss. "As you were saying?"

"Right. Help. Yours, if you think that's the best option. But I'm open to suggestions. It's Bucky."

"Bucky."

"James Barnes."

"The dead Howling Commando," you posit, still arching that brow.

Rogers winces a bit, then slowly exhales. "He's not dead. What I'm about to tell you, very few people know. And those that do are people I trust with my life. And his."

"Again, I'm flattered, but _we've just met_. You don't know a significant thing about me, save one, and that's only because you're friends with the former Director of S.H.I.E.L.D."

"I know, I know," he backs off, holding his hands out conciliatorily. "But I'm desperate."

"How do you know Barnes is still alive? I'm fairly certain I remember being told that he fell off a bloody _mountain_ from a moving train. Did some new source of information shake loose when everything else fell apart?" you ask, genuinely intrigued.

"I saw him. Fought him."

You stare at the man across the table from you, a bit slack-jawed and in no hurry to do anything about it. "In _this_ decade?"

"This year. Just before the Triskelion, then while we brought the helicarriers down."

"He turned?" you ask, shocked and slightly sickened.

Despite your general lack of interest in history, you had minded your lessons (especially after being enrolled at Xavier's). Practically every child in the Free World knew that Barnes had been Rogers' best friend growing up in Brooklyn, and had saved his life on more than one occasion. He'd been hailed as one of the greatest heroes of the war. There were almost as many kids fighting to "be Barnes" in the schoolyard as there were jockeying to "be Cap" when they'd get to playing Commandos. You'd broken up several fights yourself over the designation at Xavier's, and those kids lived with actual superheroes.

"That's not how I'd describe it," Rogers spits out, his face contorting as his thoughts turn dark. "After he fell, we all thought he died. No one could survive a fall from that height. But he did, and he was captured. First by the Soviets, then passed on to HYDRA. They did things to him."

He unzips his hoodie and pulls out a battered manila folder, placing it carefully on the table.

"Someone warned me not to pull on this thread, and part of me wishes I'd listened," he says. "What kind of friend does that make me?"

You decline to answer the question, instead pulling the folder toward you and flipping the jacket open.

"There are hundreds of documents in here," you murmur, already horrified by the few bits and pieces you catch with a quick scan. Rogers gives you a while longer to absorb more information, only electing to speak when you finally lift your eyes from the yellowed pages.

"They tortured him. Wiped his memories and replaced them with new ones. They made him into someone unrecognizable," Rogers continues, and you can hear the fury in his voice.

"This is…" you shudder and close the folder. "This is far beyond my expertise, Captain. The records here indicate he was dosed with a poor copy of the serum Erskine developed and used on you. That explains how he survived the fall from the train. But the machine they reference, the one they used to wipe his mind? That's just… that's not how memory works."

"What do you mean?" he asks, taking the folder back.

"Well, frankly, even the most preeminent cognitive science researchers don't understand exactly how or why memories form and connect beyond observable physical changes—the appearance of new neural pathways, and so on. What _is_ understood is that unless the actual brain material is destroyed—like in certain types of traumatic brain injury—you don't just _lose_ memories. You can't have them wiped away. Someone with, say, dementia or severe psychological trauma may have their memory impaired because the connections between memories are disrupted or shuffled out of order, but they don't _vanish_."

"Right," Rogers agrees. "I've been told something similar by Dr. Banner. That's why I think Bucky kept hesitating. Why he didn't kill me or let me drown in the Potomac."

"You think he was starting to remember you?"

"Maybe. I don't know for sure. But either way, we've been searching for him ever since I got out of the hospital."

"Is he the one who put you in intensive care for two weeks?"

"Yeah, mostly, but like I said… he didn't kill me. And he could have. He really, really could have."

"The metal arm probably helped in that arena," you observe, eyeing the folder now pressed beneath both of Rogers' palms.

"Felt like getting hit with a sledgehammer," he agrees, lifting one hand to rub his jaw.

"So after the Triskelion, he vanished?"

"Like Houdini. Even Natasha, uh, that's Natasha Romanoff—"

"I'm familiar with the name."

"Even she can't seem to pick up his trail."

"Is it possible that whatever is left of HYDRA found him?" you ask.

"We considered that. But we've taken a few of their people in for questioning and none of them were able to confirm that HYDRA is even looking for Bucky. By all accounts, they were planning to _dispose_ of him once Project Insight was up-and-running."

You sneer. HYDRA would consider something like that routine. The disposal of a human being who had outlived his usefulness might have been discussed with as much gravity as emptying the bin in the break room.

"The records in that file also indicate he needed routine maintenance," you supply. "For the arm and to address the lingering physical effects of his time in cryo, along with whatever damage he may have sustained in the field. The cycle of freezing and defrosting, the mind wipes, _and_ the missions must have racked up some serious medical issues, knock-off serum be damned. It's been months since the Triskelion, Captain. Unless he's found someone to keep him nominally functional—and that's just in terms of his physical condition—I don't see how he could…"

Rogers' face falls a bit, and some of the light goes out of his eyes.

"I know it's a long shot. But I have to exhaust every option. I left him at the bottom of that ravine," he chokes and squeezes his eyes shut. "I left him behind and they took him. I can't abandon him again. Not until I know for sure."

You let out a long sigh and consider your options.

"I have to be honest with you, Captain—"

"Steve."

"Right. I have to be honest with you, _Steve_. I don't think you'll receive much help from the school's resident psychics, if that's what you were hoping for."

"I wasn't even sure you had any. There are rumors, and Fury's made some insinuations, but—"

"Well that's why you probably won't have a line queuing up to help. It's not a lack of sympathy, so please don't interpret it as such. But we're responsible for the safety of hundreds of children that this government," you motion vaguely, "would much rather have locked up should they ever figure out what we're capable of. We don't want to get involved in these sorts of things."

"I know, but—"

"They have to come first, Steve. This world…" you look away, staring into the busy Midtown traffic crawling by. "It's not ready for people like us. They barely accept you, and you've very publically saved them from Nazis, aliens, and then HYDRA's most recent attempt at world domination and mass murder. Not to mention the amount of government corruption you unearthed in the process. They should throw you a bloody parade."

"They have," he notes with a slight incline of his head.

"Point is, no one will be throwing parades for Wolverine, or Cyclops, or Storm."

"Might help if you didn't choose names that scare the stuffing out of small children," he smirks.

"I'll remember to bring that up at our next team meeting," you answer drily.

Rogers tucks the folder back inside his zip-up and starts to stand.

"Thank you for listening to all this," he says. "And I do understand why you aren't able to do anything. But I had to try, y'know?"

He turns to walk away and you find yourself calling for him before your brain can catch up with your mouth.

"Wait…" you slump in your seat, staring up at the narrow strip of blue sky framed by the towering buildings rising up all around. "Bloody… _shit_. Wait."

"What are you—?"

You pinch the bridge of your nose briefly before sitting up straight again.

"There is someone I know who might be able to help. All sorts of inappropriate even considering her as an option, but she might very well murder me in my sleep if she ever found out I'd turned you away in your hour of need."

"Who?" he asks, lowering himself back into his seat.

"My sister. She… It's complicated. Her powers, that is. Not our relationship. That's fairly straightforward. She's not a psychic in the classical sense, but something off that ability tree. Sort of. I think."

"I'm not following," Rogers admits, brow creased.

You dig down into the pocket of your jeans and retrieve your cellphone. "I've been with her every step of the way as her powers manifested and developed, Captain, and I don't entirely follow. Like I said, it's complicated."

You select her number from your contact list and wait as the phone dials.

The dialed line picks up, and the drowsy voice of your little sister warbles through.

"Hullo?"

For a moment, you forget the urgency and purpose of the call, slipping into your Big Sister shoes without noticing.

"Ana. It's nearly noon. Why on earth do you sound like you're still in bed?"

"It's Saturday," she reminds you.

"Hardly an excuse," you scold. "You have several reports due on Monday, one of which_ I_ assigned."

"Already done. Finished them last night," she sighs into the phone. "God, you are so annoying."

"Heaven forbid you should cease reminding me. I might forget," you snap back at her. Rogers clears his throat and you shoot him an apologetic look. Back to the task at hand.

"There's something I need to talk to you about, and it's serious."

"Are you going to let me and Jess go to the Justin Bieber concert?!"

"What?" you ask, wrinkling your nose. "No. God, no. I said it was serious, not outrageously stupid."

"You are the worst, you never let me—"

"I'm in the city with Steve Rogers," you interrupt, not in the mood for another teenage tantrum.

"Wh-what?"

"We're sat at a café chatting over espressos. Well, I had an espresso. Rogers doesn't partake, I assume."

You feel a slight tickle at the back of your skull and instantly know she's checking the truth of your claim. Normally, that would earn her a hell of a scolding (hard to maintain any sense of privacy otherwise), but you let it go for now.

"Why would you be out to brunch with Captain America? Are you two…? I mean, you can't be…"

"A resounding 'no' on that account. The meeting was for business purposes."

"Okay, but—"

"Can I please get to the point of this phone call?"

"Um… yes?"

"Captain Rogers has been out searching for an… an old friend… for some time now and hasn't had any luck locating him. You know the connections he has to certain agencies that specialize in this sort of thing, and they haven't been able to find him either, so understand that this person is either very skilled at hiding or he's being hidden by someone who is."

"Okay," Ana responds, and some of the girlish giddiness has gone out of her voice. Perhaps she's picking up on your own tension, or felt it when she'd peeked inside your head. "What do you want me to do?"

"I'm a bit unclear on how your abilities work—"

"That's because you can't sit still long enough for me to explain!" she protests. "It's not that confusing—"

"—but I know you can't just zero-in on someone like the Professor does with Cerebro. However, considering the general attitude of non-intervention back home, you are the only person I can think of who might have a shot at narrowing down a search area."

"Wait," Ana stammers. "Who exactly is he looking for? You're purposefully avoiding that part and it's sort of important."

You pull the phone down to your chest, muffling the receiver. "I'll have to fill her in on some of the details. Are you okay with that?"

"As long as she promises not to post any of it to Facebook or tumblr, or whatever the kids are using these days," Steve says with a shrug and a sly smile.

"Hello?" Ana chirps. "Did you put me on hold?"

"No. Quiet. Do you remember when we took a field trip to the Smithsonian a few years ago?"

"I remember you sulking about it quite clearly," she retorts, and you swear you can actually hear her crossing her arms and pouting.

"Yes, lovely, well if you recall, we spent an inordinate amount of time at the exhibit detailing the exploits of Captain Rogers and the Howling Commandos."

She sighs, exasperated. "Yes. Mr. Logan got really quiet and was grouchier than usual for like, a week, afterwards."

"He had his reasons," you supply, cutting off that particular tangent before it gains any traction. "You remember the section about James Barnes?"

"I didn't need to go to the Smithsonian to learn who James Barnes was," she remarks. "Everyone knows who he was. I dressed up as him for Halloween when I was eight."

"Only because you were Rogers the year before and I wouldn't let you repeat the same costume," you throw back, immediately flushing as you realize you've just divulged that in front of the actual Captain America.

"Seriously?" he asks, blushing more furiously than you must be.

You wave him off and return your attention to the phone call. "Do you remember how he died?"

"Yes. He fell, on that train mission in the Alps."

"Right. Now for the dramatic plot twist: He didn't die. He's still alive."

A long silence stretches across the line.

_"…What?"_

"Rogers ran into him again, just this year. The footage we watched of the fight in D.C.?" you ask, leading her along.

"Yeah, the one where HYDRA made its first very public appearance after… After Captain Rogers refused to play nice with Secretary Pierce. They were on an overpass."

"You got footage of that?" Rogers asks, slightly affronted. "The government ordered a media blackout."

"It was on the internet for about thirty seconds before the Fed shut down all the links. But once something gets loose online, you can't ever get rid of all traces. We have some very knowledgeable computer-types at home."

At his look of continued indignation, you decide it may be best to explain a bit further.

"We were trying to determine if we needed to step in or get some of our people in the area into safe houses. The footage was initially restricted to staff and members of the team. Some of the kids got a hold of the data a few days later and were appropriately punished, I can assure you."

"Where are you going with this?" Ana asks, increasingly annoyed by the three-way conversation going on.

"The main shooter on the overpass, the one wearing the mask, with the metal arm?"

"Yeah?"

"That was Barnes."

She makes a noise that can only be described as a shocked sort of whimper. Barnes, like Rogers, was one of Ana's childhood heroes, and like so many other children, she idolized them both to the point that any injury to their respective reputations seemed more like a sin than an insult.

"Oh _shit_," she finally replies.

"No kidding," you agree. "And it only gets worse."


	2. Chapter 2

"Farewells can be shattering, but returns are surely worse. Solid flesh can never live up to the bright shadow cast by its absence."

-Margaret Atwood, _The Blind Assassin_

* * *

"You want me to find him?" she asks, after taking several long, deep breaths to steady herself. "_The Winter Soldier_. That's what they call him, right? You want me to find a HYDRA assassin?"

"Calm down. It's not quite that straightforward. What I'm going to tell you absolutely must remain between us. No telling your friends, no posting about it on Facebook, not even the Professor can know," you warn.

"You're really serious, aren't you? Is this going to be dangerous? For you, I mean."

"Yes, and probably. You know I can handle myself."

"And Captain Rogers is there. He'll be with you when you do whatever it is you're going to do," she supplies, a bit of confidence seeping back into her words. "Okay. Tell me everything."

You _do not_ tell her everything. Most of the information in the file is too vile to pass on to someone not even old enough to drive. So you give her the briefest, most watered-down version of the information as possible. You explain that while in HYDRA's custody, Barnes had undergone intense and prolonged brainwashing, had been used like a living weapon without any say in the matter, and had been subjected to a cruel system of mind wipes, cryo-freeze and defrost cycles, and intense mental reprogramming in order to rip away what memories he did manage to retain or retrieve.

You don't mention the records detailing the horrific torture and behavior modification routines that had clearly been designed to break a human being so thoroughly that the mere thought of rebellion would leave them practically catatonic with fear. They'd stripped Barnes of his humanity and replaced it with something violent, and ugly, and utterly compliant.

Despite your censorship, Ana is still disturbed by what you've elected to share.

"How could anyone do that to another person?" she whispers, snuffling quietly. "He was such a good guy. Like, a _really_ good guy."

"Agreed. It's a horrendous thing to consider, but any attempt by you or I to understand the depravity that HYDRA is capable of would be pointless. And psychologically painful, I expect."

"Okay." She snuffles again, wiping her nose on what you hope is a tissue and not her sleeve.

"If you're not comfortable doing this, we don't have to take it any further. Captain Rogers will understand, and so will I."

"No!" she practically shouts. "No. I… If I'm really the best option you can think of, then I want to help. I have to. We can't leave him out there like that. It's wrong."

You flash Rogers a thumbs up and watch as he almost melts into his chair. The look of relief on his face makes your throat constrict. You glance away, giving him what little privacy you can while he processes his sudden change of fortune.

"So what do you need from me to make this happen?" you ask Ana. "I mean, how would you go about finding someone you've never met? He could be anywhere."

Ana clucks her tongue against the roof of her mouth, a habit she indulges in when she's mulling over a particularly vexing problem. "Honestly, aside from you, I've never tried this on someone who isn't in my line of sight," she admits. "You're easy though. I _know_ you."

She hums to herself and clucks her tongue again. You remain silent, letting her work the issue.

"But, in theory, I should be able to project a mental net wide enough to search a fairly large geographical area until I get a bite. Is it safe to assume that he's probably in a great deal of mental distress?"

"I would imagine so, but there are no guarantees for any of this," you caution. "We're wading into seriously uncharted water."

"Well, I can start by sniffing around for any strong thoughts related to HYDRA and Alexander Pierce. If Barnes was sent to kill Captain Rogers, he might be thinking about him, too," she considers, talking more to herself than you.

"Remind me again how this isn't exactly what the Professor does?"

"It's completely different," she snaps. "He can take control of the waking mind, read it, even manipulate your thoughts in real time. I can only hitch a ride. It's the difference between swimming in an ocean and dipping your toes in a pond."

"Weird," you mutter.

"I don't know how else to explain it. It'd be like you trying to describe to me what it's like to walk in something else's skin."

You snort and run your free hand through your hair. "He's likely in awful physical condition. Can you feel when someone is hurt?"

"If the pain is strong enough to overwhelm most other thoughts, then yes. It shouldn't be too hard. But I hate using that as a waypoint," she replies. "I end up feeling too much. It's awful."

"Okay, don't do that then."

"But… but maybe if the pain is related to that arm somehow? I mean, that's got to be a pretty specific sensation. Not many people strolling around with a banged up metal arm. I don't know. I'll see what I can do. The more search terms I have, the better our chances."

You finally drag your eyes back to Rogers. He's sitting up straight again, and some of the worry lines that had branched out around the corners of his eyes and mouth are starting to fade.

"Ana is going to try to look for Barnes using… I guess you could call them psychic red flags? Things that would almost be unique to Barnes. His feelings about HYDRA, Pierce, you, even pain specific to his bionic arm. Anything else you can add will help," you tell him.

"He might be thinking in Russian," Steve adds, voice quiet. "And if he's remembering more, maybe about Brooklyn, or his Ma, his sisters. The 107th. The Howling Commandos. I—I don't know what else."

"Okay, that's good, Steve. Thank you."

You angle the receiver of your phone back towards your mouth and parrot back all of the new search terms to Ana.

"One more thing," Steve says once you've finished. "Before I fell into the river, before he fished me out and vanished, I said… _'I'm with you until the end of the line.'_ His face, it sort of… it changed, just a little, just for a second. But maybe that's what finally got through." He looks down and runs his hands over the back of his head a few times, puffing out air.

"It's stupid, I know—"

"It's not stupid," you tell him. "Not even a little."

You relay the last bit of information to Ana and wait for her to digest everything.

"When she gets started," Steve says, "Try Brooklyn first. It's the place he knows best. We've looked everywhere we could think of, including there, but never found anything. Natasha located a dozen HYDRA safe houses stateside and abroad, but found no sign of him. She's called in every favor and threatened every former associate and adversary she can think of; no one knows anything. Wilson and I have combed the East coast and we'd started working into the Midwest when Fury called me and suggested I speak with you."

"If you already looked there—"

"We already looked everywhere," he says. "If not physically, than virtually. Stark has had JARVIS looking for anything and everything that might link back to Bucky. We've got nothing. If he's spending money, he's using cash. If he's renting hotel rooms or cars, he's using aliases that Stark's algorithms aren't picking up. He's a ghost."

"They trained him to do this, Steve. To disappear until a handler showed up at a designated time and place and returned him to… to _wherever_, and had him put back in storage," you reply.

Rogers looks hurt, and knowing that he'd probably drawn the same conclusions a long time ago doesn't make you feel like any less of an asshole for saying it out loud.

You duck your head a bit and wet your lips.

"We'll start with Brooklyn."

* * *

"I can't believe I'm letting her do this," you mutter.

"Thank you," Rogers says, and you can tell he means it, _really_ means it.

It's been hours since Ana started and you've consumed enough espresso to drop a horse. Rogers politely ordered a cup of decaf coffee, but hasn't so much as touched the mug since the waitress dropped it off (flustered and tripping over her own tongue, the poor lamb).

"This is much more difficult than I thought it would be," Ana murmurs. You've put her on speaker so that Rogers can hear what she's up to, not that she's been talking an awful lot.

"I've scanned Brooklyn like, a dozen times," she huffs. "I'm just not, _ugh_. I don't think I'm strong enough to do this."

"It's… It's okay. You tried," Steve offers, crestfallen. Thankfully, Ana can't see him, because she'd probably burst into tears if she could.

"Maybe he's not in Brooklyn," you prod. "Maybe we're looking in the wrong place after all."

"I'm sorry," she says, voice watery. "I'm so, so sorry. I can try again, I can keep trying."

"We will discuss that when I get home," you tell her, turning off the speakerphone option and returning the mobile to the side of your face. "You did your best."

"But it wasn't enough. We didn't find him."

"Lesson the first: Not every mission is a success," you tell her.

"But—"

"No buts. I'm not saying we can't try again, but that's enough for today. You've been at it for hours."

"Okay," she exhales into the phone. "Fine. I'll… I'll go see what everyone is up to. Adam's been bugging me about our chess game for a week."

"Good. Go murder his queen or whatever it is that you do. With that. With chess."

"Tell Captain Rogers that I'm really sorry, and that I won't stop looking until we find him," she finishes before saying goodbye and disconnecting.

"She sounds like a good kid," Rogers observes, finally taking a pull from his lukewarm decaf.

"Well that's how they get you," you chuckle. "All big eyes and golden halos. Then they become teenagers and everything becomes a bloody _struggle_ practically overnight. I suppose she's better than most, though."

"High praise," he returns with a tight smile that is all kinds of forced.

"As long as you keep looking, I'm sure you'll find him eventually, Steve."

He nods, never lifting his eyes to yours, and the motion slowly turns into a shake of his head. "When we first set out, me and Wilson, I thought the same thing. I was so sure that the next truck stop or filthy motel would yield results. That he was just around the next corner, down the next block. But he doesn't want to be found. Maybe I should respect that and back off."

You blink at him, feeling a sickening sort of anger crawling up from your gut. "That's the most ridiculous thing I've heard you say all afternoon. If half of what's in that file is true, Barnes is so utterly screwed up that you can't trust any decision he makes because he's not capable of making them."

You take a deep breath, reigning in your irritation. "You two were like brothers, right?"

"We _were_ brothers. In every way save blood."

"Well, if—Heaven forbid—something happened to Ana and someone took her away from me, _hurt her_, and then left her to wander this supremely fucked up world on her own, there is no force on this earth that would keep me from finding her," you tell him, eyes narrowed to slits, their color flashing as you let your own leash slip. "Or from wringing out every ounce of vengeance owed to us both from the person responsible. I would lay waste to _armies_ if that's what it took."

"But—"

Your cellphone rings, interrupting whatever Rogers had been about to say. The caller ID shows Ana's profile picture on the screen.

"Hello?" you answer, curious as to why she would be calling back so soon after—

"I found him!" she gushes. "I found him! I did it!" '

_"What?"_

"I think there was some kind of interference caused by the phone connection. Once I hung up—"

"You were supposed to go do chess with your friend," you remind her.

"_Do chess?_ Who says that? Anyway. I went and asked Ms. Munroe if I could hang out in the greenhouse, it's so quiet there, y'know? And so she said 'of course' and I found a good spot to just sit and think and concentrate, _and I found him!"_

You choke back the urge to reprimand her for being disobedient and deceptive ("Blah blah, my friend Adam, blah blah, our nerdy board game, blah!"), instead making a mental note to bring it up later when it isn't so easy for her to talk right over you, especially when what she's talking about is so damned important.

"Where is he?"

"An abandoned brownstone near the Ninth Street train station, on Fourth Avenue," she supplies, her voice growing stronger. "He _is_ in Brooklyn."

* * *

You bring up the Google Maps app on your phone and drop a pin on the subway station. Steve is busy settling the tab, insisting that he pay. You'd protested, but he'd started using his Official Captain America Voice and surrender was inevitable.

Ana fills you in on a few more details while you get a better idea of where you're headed.

"He's alone, and there was blood. _A lot _of blood. I couldn't tell if someone else did it to him, or…" she trails off. "And it's dark where he is. Maybe a basement, or just a room with no windows. His vision is pretty fuzzy. He's so sick and he just wants it all to stop."

"Does it feel like a trap to you?" you ask, well aware that she doesn't have the field experience to tell when something _is_ a trap, but hell, you might as well make this a teaching moment.

"How do you mean?"

"I mean does it feel like someone is setting this up? Conveniently leaving Barnes where Steve would eventually look again, apparently incapacitated, and alone."

"So you're saying it feels like a trap to you."

"I'm merely noting the possibility," you tell her. "A trap is only a trap if you don't know that it's there. If you anticipate the snare, you can work your way around it. Or break it. Or turn it to your advantage."

"I don't think it's a trap," she states with an air of confidence you wish you felt. "There are no ripples, no _echoes_, of anyone else around him. He's been alone for a long time. Maybe since the Triskelion."

"Is he agitated?"

"No. Just exhausted. And sad. He kind of seizes up with terror every now-and-then, usually when he blacks out. Whatever he's seeing when he closes his eyes, it's…"

"You didn't look, did you?"

"No!" she exclaims, then more softly: "No. I could tell how bad it was just by the way everything feels around him. It's like he's putting off vibes or something. I've never felt anything like it."

"Good girl," you tell her. "That was a smart call. I want you to back off if you're still keeping tabs on him. Rogers and I will go to the location you indicated and see what there is to see."

"You'll call me back if you find him though, right?" she asks, and you can almost see her biting her lip with worry.

"Of course. Not right away, though. We'll be a touch busy for a while."

"You brought your kit?"

"Just the one that goes where the bike does. I wasn't anticipating a medical emergency. I'll do what I can on the ground and we'll work up a plan of action once I have a better idea of where we stand," you tell her, scrubbing a hand across your eyes.

If this rescue operation lasts longer than the weekend, you'll have to call Summers and explain what you've gotten yourself into, and why, and then beg a few days off from your duties at the school.

The conversation will not be a pleasant one.

"We have a safehouse not too far from where Bucky is," Steve starts, re-inserting himself into the conversation. "It's in Forest Hills. 10824 68th Avenue. You know how to get around Queens?"

You smirk and roll your eyes. "I've been in the neighborhood a few times," you tell him, refusing to elaborate further. Let Rogers do his own recon on the resident web-slinger on that side of town.

"I'll talk to you later, Ana. Keep the phone nearby."

"Right," she says. "Good luck."

You disconnect and shove the phone back into your jeans.

"You're going to have to be satisfied with providing back-up on this one, Rogers," you tell him, pulling your jacket on. "If he's as unstable as I suspect, seeing you could trigger a complete mental collapse, or it could send him into a psychotic rage. Either way, I can't help him if he's completely wrecked."

"What are you going to do?" he asks. You note with a great deal of satisfaction and gratitude that he's not arguing.

"Oh, did Fury not fill you in on that part of my background?" you ask, dragging a pair of black calfskin gloves over your hands. "I'm like eighty-five percent a doctor."

"What—? That doesn't… How can someone be _eighty-five__ percent a doctor?"_

"I postponed my residency to teach at Xavier's. Ana was starting to act out and get into trouble. The school is my _alma mater_, and the Professor offered me a teaching position while I get her straightened out, so I took it," you explain, turning from the table and motioning for Rogers to follow. "Anyway, my plan for your friend is to make contact, evaluate his medical condition, then his mental state—not my fore, just to warn you—and only when I'm absolutely sure he's not going to freak the hell out, you will join us and together, we'll get him out of whatever hole he's crawled into. We move him to your safehouse in Queens, and then I get to work cleaning up and setting right what I can," you tell him over your shoulder. "Once he's stable, you're going to have to make arrangements that are both more secure and far more specialized."

"Maybe..." Steve says, easily matching you stride for stride, "Maybe he'll be okay once we get him cleaned up and safe. Maybe he won't need to be—"

"He will, and that's something you're going to have to come to terms with. If he isn't deeply, seriously affected by what's been done to him, then you should be very worried."

He shoves his hands in the pocket at the front of his hoodie and nods. "You're right."

"This thing that we're about to do, that_ you're_ about to do? It's probably going to be one of the hardest things you've ever done, if for no other reason than because you care so much about the outcome."

"You're not a particularly positive person, are you?" he asks, and though he tries to keep his tone light, you can tell he finds it a little off-putting.

"I consider myself a realist," you retort. "Prepare for the worst, hope for the best."

A few blocks later, you spot your 1199 Superleggera perched on the curb like an imposing bird-of-prey; all sharp angles and glossy black carbon fiber. You retrieve your helmet from the doorman of the nearest building (you'd paid him fifty bucks to keep an eye on the bike) and pop it on. Slinging one leg over the seat, you reach forward and turn the engine over, pleased at the efficient, musical hum of the machinery.

"How am I supposed to keep up with you on _that?"_ Rogers asks, gesturing to the Ducati superbike.

You shrug, "Run really fast?"

"Cute. I guess I'll meet you in Brooklyn."

"I'm not going to wait for you. If he's as bad as Ana indicated, we really have no time to waste," you tell him.

Before he can protest, you pull away from the curb and slice into traffic, cutting between cars, trucks, and beat up cabs like a hot knife through butter.

* * *

You know the city fairly well, enough to navigate several side streets and narrow alleys to avoid the worst of the traffic. You crisscross W. 44th, 5th Avenue, and East 14th, Broadway, Canal, and then zip across the Manhattan Bridge. You circumvent Flatbush Avenue with side streets because you're not an idiot, and then cross over to 4th Avenue.

Twenty minutes after leaving Midtown, you're slowly rolling through a neighborhood of modest brownstones and mom-and-pop shops that the yuppies haven't squeezed out yet. A young man sporting _payot_ and the traditionally conservative clothing favored by Hasidic Jews glances up from his cellphone to look at you, then the bike, and then back at you as you come to a stop in front of what might be a coffee shop or a liquor store. The signage is confusing.

You make eye contact and he bobs his head.

"Are you lost?" he asks.

"No. Do I stick out that much?"

"It's the pants," he says with a shy smile. "Most of the women in the neighborhood…" he gestures to his own clothing. "You know."

You smile back, hoping he just chalks this up to the random encounters you're bound to stumble upon when living in the city, regardless of whichever cultural or religious enclave one ensconces oneself in.

"Their coffee is pretty terrible," he warns, pointing at the shop. "There's a better place around the corner."

You nod, and pull your helmet off, balancing it on the seat of the bike. "This safe here?"

"Oh yes," he says, again bobbing his head. "It's not that kind of neighborhood. We don't leave our doors unlocked or anything, but…" he makes a wide gesture with his hands and then finishes with a shrug. "I think it'll be fine."

"Thanks." You pop open a hidden (and definitely custom) compartment on the side of the bike, tugging out a nondescript black bag that can easily pass as a very utilitarian purse but actually contains vital medical equipment and supplies.

You wave to the young man as you walk towards the subway station, eyes flicking to the signs that announce service to the elevated IND Culver Line and the underground BMT Fourth Avenue Line; F, G, R, D, and N trains. Well, at least you know you're in the general area where Ana had picked up on Barnes' mental signature.

Most of the nearby houses seem occupied; they're not flashy and it looks like most haven't been altered substantially since the 1970s, but they're clean and tidy. The rubbish bins are all numbered and tucked away from the sidewalk. These aren't rich people, but they clearly take pride in their neighborhood.

Barnes can't be in any of these houses for all the obvious reasons. You'll have to find one that's abandoned.

You look back in the direction you'd seen the young man and catch sight of him turning into the small front yard of a nearby house.

"Hey!" you call, waving one hand over your head.

He looks up again from his phone and gives a slow, hesitant wave back. You jog over, plastering your most convincing "I swear I'm a nice, totally non-threatening person" smile on your face.

"Sorry, I don't mean to put you on the spot," you tell him, pretending to be slightly out of breath from the brief physical activity. "I'm supposed to be meeting a real estate agent to check out one of the abandoned houses in the neighborhood."

"Not many of those," he says, reaching up with one hand to scratch his forehead. "The synagogue usually buys them up and renovates them for new families immigrating to the States. Usually from Russia. That's how my folks got this one." He motions to the duplex behind him.

"Shoot," you say, placing your hands on your hips. "I wrote the address down on a notepad but I was halfway into the city before I realized I left it at home. Memory of a goldfish," you laugh, bopping yourself on your forehead. "I guess I should just call her and ask for the address again."

"Reception can be pretty spotty. People say it's because of the subway line. Interference or something," he holds up his phone. "I've barely got a bar. Are you sure the house is in this neighborhood?"

"Positive."

"Well… The only one I can think of is about two blocks down, but it's a real dump. I don't think it even has a door, just a big piece of plywood slapped on by the city to keep the junkies out. You thinking about moving in or just flipping it for resale or rental? 'Cause I gotta be honest, and please don't be offended, but you're the wrong gender and a _goyim_. Not sure anyone would buy or rent from you, even if you did a really good job fixing the place up."

"Duly noted," you tell him with a smile. Little enclaves like this tend to hold on to whatever traditions and cultural mores the original residents managed to drag along with them from the old country. Not that any of that actually matters to you at the moment.

"It's stupid and backward, but things move at their own pace here," he adds. "Sorry."

"It's fine, really. I'll go find that house and keep trying my realtor. Thanks for your help."

He nods and heads up onto the front porch of the duplex, where a stern-faced woman in a long gray dress waits in one of the doorways. You hope you haven't gotten him into some kind of trouble.

You force yourself to walk at a casual pace, punching the screen of your cellphone with one outstretched finger as if it's refusing to do as you want. Finally, a few blocks down you find the house the young man had described.

There's a long piece of plywood where a door belongs, and it's clearly been pried loose at the bottom. It would be difficult for someone Barnes' size to squeeze through, but not impossible. Even from the outside, the place is clearly a tear-down. A faded piece of paper with the city seal stamped at the top is posted to the board. It reads:

CONDEMNED BY ORDER OF THE NEW YORK CITY HOUSING AUTHORITY.

TRESPASSERS WILL BE PROSECUTED TO THE FULLEST EXTENT OF THE LAW.

"Oh, perfect," you mutter, glancing around to see if anyone is watching. The streets seem empty, though little communities like this tend to have a surplus of nosy old ladies with nothing better to do than keep watch at their windows and note every minor disturbance with alarming accuracy.

The longer you hesitate, however, the more likely someone will notice, along with the inescapable fact that Barnes is likely getting worse as time marches on. If he's not in this house, he's in one nearby, so you'll search them all should that be required. You're committed to this now.

Briefly, you wonder where the hell Rogers is and what's taking him so long. No time to wait, though.

"Once more into the breach," you whisper, pulling the flimsy wooden barrier back and slipping into the darkness beyond.


	3. Chapter 3

"Farewells can be shattering, but returns are surely worse. Solid flesh can never live up to the bright shadow cast by its absence."

-Margaret Atwood, _The Blind Assassin_

* * *

The house is oppressively dark, with only a few slivers of pale yellow light filtering through the cracks between the boards nailed over the spaces where windows used to be. You wrinkle your nose at the smell of rot, mold, and the sharp sting of ammonia.

Within seconds, your eyes have adjusted, growing _tapetum lucidum_ behind each retina, sending what scant light makes it through back into the eye. The foyer brightens quickly, and you begin to slowly pick your way through the detritus of the ruined home.

As you press forward into the next room, you feel an itch start at the base of each ear, traveling up and into the canals. Their external shape changes as well, your auricular muscles strengthening to allow more delicate, deliberate movement, and the length and profile of the shell adjusting to catch more sound.

As strong as the earlier noted odors are, your nose begins to shift its structure. Your olfactory has picked up on something in the air that deserves more attention and you're adapting to satisfy your brain's need for additional information. You inhale deeply and feel your stomach roil at the distinct smell of hard alcohol and fresh vomit. And blood. The heavy copper tang works its way into your throat and makes your eyes water.

Glass and debris crunch under your feet, unavoidable in the growing mess of the brownstone as you approach the end of the first room, which you can only assume was once a front parlor. You can't help but feel a pang of sadness at the ruin of what was once someone's home. The old-fashioned wallpaper has almost come completely free of the walls and black mold is swiftly colonizing the room, swallowing it up in toxic spores that only complete demolition will remedy.

Every muscle in your body suddenly tenses and your ears snap forward, straining hard. You pick up the sound of something shifting in the room beyond, a subtle adjustment of weight that causes the ruined hardwood to creak in protest.

You peer around the entryway, and there he is.

Curled around himself in the fetal position with his back to the doorway, the indomitable Winter Soldier lies huddled in a corner, surrounded by crates of Nikolai brand vodka along with empty bottles of the same. A wide spray of crimson blood fans out from his left shoulder, indicative of an arterial bleed. The wound is still slowly pumping blood onto the slick floor, and judging by the amount soaking into the floorboards, he doesn't have much left to lose.

_That's probably the Axillary_, you note. _I can clamp it without endangering whatever is left of his shoulder and arm. Good._ Abandoning caution, you rush forward to crouch on the floor, rotating him gently onto his back and bringing his head forward.

"Sergeant? James? Can you hear me?"

No response. You drop your medical kit onto the ground, grimacing at the wet sound it makes upon contact with the gore still spreading out around you. You rip out a small penlight and pry Barnes' eyelids up, only to find his eyes completely rolled back into his head.

"Dammit," you seethe, pressing three fingers against his carotid, barely able to detect a pulse, and what you do find is thready and weak. The wound is horrific, and the jagged edges indicate a serrated weapon of some kind. You quickly glance around and spot the (holy shit, _huge)_ knife tossed halfway across the room.

"Christ, you did this to yourself, didn't you?" You pull back slightly, swallowing a surge of bile that sets your eyes to watering once more.

You draw in a shaky breath and dig around in your kit again, first snapping on a pair of latex gloves and then pulling loose a long rubber tube. You get the tourniquet around the shoulder joint (not ideal, not at all) and pull it tight before knotting it, trying to cut off the flow of blood from the damaged artery.

You double check that he's still breathing (shallow, gasping, completely uneven), and then retrieve your suturing set. You apply surgical clamps above and below the artery, noting that you'll have to ligate the vessel, sewing up the ends to close it completely. Another steadying breath and you get your suture prepared, and start to tie a series of tiny loops, starting from the top and working your way around. Ideally, you'd be able to apply an interposition graft as well, but the ligation will have to do. You tie off the surgical thread, and slowly release the clamps, watching for any signs of a leak.

Observing none, you toss the used needle and its bloodied driver to the side and prepare a clean set, then begin knitting the worst of the sub-dermal muscle damage (_pectoralis major;_ that one's gonna smart) back to something approaching normal. Once everything looks less shredded, you again start a new line of stitches, this time closing the torn skin. He'll have quite a scar if he survives. Carefully, you loosen the tourniquet, though you don't disengage it entirely.

The end result is ugly as hell, and had you done this in a proper hospital, you'd probably lose your medical license in the resulting lawsuit. A procedure like this really needs to be handled by an experienced vascular surgeon (which you are not) with a team of nurses, and at least one anesthesiologist (who are not here), in a sterile, controlled operating room (which this is not). What should have taken hours if done properly has barely clocked in at twenty minutes here and now. You've done a slightly better job than a field medic in the middle of a firefight.

_Still better than nothing_, you remind yourself. _Still better than bleeding out._

Barnes' skin is ashy, a sickly cadaver-grey caused by the lack of blood circulating through his body. Hands shaking, you press your fingers against his throat again, hoping.

The rhythm is slight and delicate, but there. Stronger than before, you tell yourself. You lean forward and lower your ear to his chest, first checking his heart (about as weak as you'd expected, but consistent), then follow the long line of his sternum to watch for the rise and fall of his lungs drawing breath. You can hear the air rasping inside, and are relieved as each inhale-exhale goes a bit deeper, a bit fuller than the last.

The serum, you realize, however watered-down it may have been compared to Erskine's, had saved Barnes' life as much, if not more, than your clumsy attempt at triage. Had he not been enhanced, he would have died long before you'd reached him. The timing of everything, from Ana's discovery of his location to your arrival on scene, is damned uncanny.

"You're one lucky bastard, you know that?"

You reach up to wipe the accumulated blood and sweat from his brow and he flinches, as if your touch burns. His head rolls to the side and he starts to shift against the floor. Without warning, his good arm snaps up against the sutures tracking across his left shoulder. He claws at them.

"What?! No, stop!" you cry, grabbing the offending hand and trying to pry it away. "Barnes, stop!"

His back arches from the floor, eyelids fluttering to reveal only the whites. He's gasping like a landed fish, throat working as if he wants to scream.

_Shit! Shit shit shit!_

You need Steve to show up now, right now, to hold his friend down. You could shift into something far stronger, but you'll lose the dexterity needed to control him without doing damage. You allow your muscles to compensate as much as possible without falling into a complete shift, leaning back to apply leverage to Barnes' offending arm.

"Please!" you beg him, digging your heels into the floor. "_Please!_"

He wrests his arm free, fingers digging into the newly closed wound, raking fresh gouges in his own flesh.

He's trying to tear the bionic arm off.

You rip your cellphone from your pocket and frantically stab at the screen until you manage to select Ana's number from your recent calls list. She picks up before it can finish ringing.

"Did you find—"

"Ana, _Ana_, listen," you practically shout into the phone. "Can you get me inside his head?"

_"What?!"_

"I need to get inside, I can't let you go in there yourself, but he's—goddammit, stop, Barnes!—he's lost or hallucinating, I don't know, but he's going to kill himself if I don't get control of this situation," you pant, keeping the phone pinned to your ear with a hunched shoulder, using both hands to pry his own from the bloody tracks he's digging into his skin.

"Can't you, like, sedate him or something?" she asks, a desperate edge of fear to her words.

"He's not stable, I'll kill him if I slow his heart down any more. Get me _inside!"_

"I don't even know if I can, and if I do, I'm not sure how to get you back. It's… It's not like going out for a sodding stroll!" she shouts, and the worry in her voice, the fear, makes you hesitate for the briefest moment. Barnes manages a hoarse scream and thrashes against you, and you know he's dying, still trapped in his nightmares.

"Do it!" you order. "You'll figure it out. I trust you."

"I don't want to lose you," she stammers and you're preparing another argument when you suddenly feel her inside your head, nudging gently, trying to convince your subconscious mind to let go, to be moved, and your body reacts as if she's trying to kill you (which she is, technically). It takes more willpower than you thought you possessed to resist the urge to violently shove her back out.

"Don't be gentle about it, Ana! Push!"

And then she does. She forces you out of your own body, and the severing of the connection between self and sinew is more than painful; it ratchets down your spine like fire. You feel the loss so keenly you begin to consider oblivion preferable to another minute in such a state of _not __being._

Just as you're about to welcome the gathering darkness, she's there again, guiding you to the soldier shaking violently in the dark room, attacking himself even as he remains unconscious. You notice your own body slumped over, your clothes soaking up the blood still pooling on the floor. Another hard shove from Ana, and suddenly you're standing alone in an empty void. You can feel your legs, feel them rooted to the ground, as real and tangible as they ever were.

But this isn't real, you remind yourself. Ana's touch is completely absent in this place and you wonder if perhaps you have gone and died. Well, you _were_ warned.

Squinting, you make out the faint shape of a body not far from where you're standing. You run towards the outline of what you hope is Barnes, the darkness twisting around your legs like smoke. You're not entirely sure that you're moving; there's no passing scenery or visible ground to judge by, but the distant figure slowly grows larger as you draw near.

Finally, you're close enough to touch him. You kneel and prop the shivering, shaking form up into a sitting position, wrapping an arm around his back to keep him from collapsing.

His head turns and pale blue eyes meet yours. "You're not real," he rasps, then closes his eyes again. "Go away."

His face is gaunt; the bones beneath the skin shifting with each breath. The circles under his eyes look more like bruises and his hair lies lank and filthy across his forehead.

"I am real," you counter. "More real than anything else in this place, other than you." You brush as much hair out of his eyes as possible, adjusting your position so you have a better grip on him. Despite looking like little more than a skeleton, he's remarkably heavy.

"No, you're not. None of you are real," he protests. "I killed the others. They showed me and I—" He falls silent, eyes glazing over.

"Please, Barnes, you need to listen to me. I'm a friend of Steve's—"

He reacts faster than you're prepared for, jerking away from you and falling over. He crawls away, looking back with utter panic in his eyes. "No!" he shouts, "Steve's not—no! I didn't. I didn't kill _him_. You're lying. You're all lying, I would never—"

"Steve is fine. He's alive and he's _fine_, Barnes. He's been looking for you for months," you assure him, holding your hands up to show him that you're not trying to hurt him. "I know you didn't kill him."

"GO AWAY!" he screams, and there are tears now, tracking down the too-deep hollows of his cheeks. He gasps and rolls over, resting his head against the not-floor. "I stayed away. I stayed away from him so I wouldn't—so they couldn't make me—"

"Okay, I understand," you tell him, keeping your voice quiet and even. "You did the right thing. But you're very sick and Steve is worried. We have to find a way out of this place so we can make you better again."

"Don't make me go away," he begs, looking up at you with a mixed expression of terror and rage. "I'll be good, I promise. Just don't make me hurt Steve, _and don't make me go away_. Please…"

Your heart breaks and you feel tears pricking at your own eyes. "Bucky, I'm not going to hurt you," you promise. "I would never—Please, I need you to listen to me. I'm here to help. I don't work with HYDRA, or S.H.I.E.L.D. I don't want to send you away or give you a mission. I'm trying to get you out, to get you home."

He breathes heavily, eyes squeezed shut, and shakes his head. "Can't go home," he says. "You're lying, they always lie. Smiling and laughing and lying through their teeth."

You scoot towards him, slowly, with your hands still up and palms facing forward. "I know. They hurt you and used you and then left you to die in this pit," you tell him.

"No, no, they don't know I'm here. They tried to follow, but I—"

"Okay, good. You got away, you beat them, Barnes. Steve will burn this entire wretched planet to ashes before he lets anyone take you away again. You know that."

"I have to stay away," he gasps. "I see him and everything goes _red_ and it hurts in here," he presses a bloody finger to his temple. "Just go away."

"I'm not leaving this place without you," you tell him. "Not when I've come this far."

"I'm not who Steve thinks I am. That guy is _dead_, why can't you understand? I can't be—"

"You are him, and some part of you knows it," you scold, closing the remaining distance between you. Carefully, you lift his head from the ground. He sighs, turning his face into the crook of your arm and relaxing the tight line of his body.

"Good," you tell him, pulling your fingers through his hair in what you hope is a comforting gesture. There are tangles, but you work them free without pulling against his scalp. He hunches in towards you, his metal arm curling around your waist as he grasps at you like a man drowning.

"You're the worst one yet," he cries into your lap, his voice muffled. "You're nice, and warm, and—" Those metal fingers release their grip on your hip and slide up your arm, slipping beneath your own at the crown of his skull. "And then you'll stop, and the pain will come."

"Barnes, relax. We have someone on the outside trying to work up an exit strategy. She'll find a way to get us out. Until then, you need to—"

He laughs; a brittle, harsh sound that reminds you of dead leaves being dragged across rough pavement by the wind. "You really are the worst one. I hate the cold. Hate it. But you know that, and you know I won't fight you." He looks up at you, brow creased, "But if you could knock me out before the ice this time, that'd be appreciated. Hit me over the head, suck all the oxygen out of the room, I don't care. Just don't do it while I'm awake. I've been good, haven't I? You can do that much for me."

"Dammit, Barnes…"

Suddenly, he stiffens and starts to scramble backward, throwing you off balance so that you topple over. "No! No, _please_, no more! _Please!"_

The darkness around you contracts and then rapidly expands, boiling out like liquid nitrogen. Blank walls shimmer into existence, and Barnes is no longer on the floor, but hanging like a ragdoll from the newly-formed ceiling, arms strung above him with a set of heavy chains. The very tips of his toes just barely touch the ground, unable to gain adequate purchase. The weight of his own body strains the ligaments in his good arm as he sways, his balance impossible to maintain.

As he turns in the air, you can see the flayed skin of his back. Some of the wounds penetrate all the dermal layers, exposing fat and tissue, bright red slashes of muscle, and _holy shit_, there are places where the flesh has been stripped the bone.

You lose it, vomiting up the not-contents of your not-stomach, violently retching despite years spent studying medical diagrams and performing dissections on donated corpses. This is no dead man, no drawing in a textbook.

You hear him whispering, still conscious somehow. "Please, no more. Please. I'll do what you want."

"Oh Christ, Barnes, this isn't me, I'm not—"

An invisible force strikes out at him and he swings wildly on the chains, back arching and a scream torn from his throat that is so raw, you almost feel the lash yourself. He curls up on himself, finding the strength to drag his knees up to his chest before finally going slack with exhaustion.

"Stop!" You shout at nothing, at no one. You try to remember what Ana has told you about her little psychic strolls, about the impression of one will upon another, about astral selves and the formless anarchy of the dream world.

Nothing here is real. This isn't actually happening. Barnes isn't being flayed alive, there is no silent torturer snapping his lash with all his strength, there are no chains.

Barnes is struck again and again, each time his cries diminish, throat ragged and torn. You wonder how long it will be until he passes out and then remember, with a stab of horror, that he'll be able to withstand a lot more damage because of the serum.

Had this really happened at some point in the past? Was it a memory or just something his mind conjured up as he lost himself in misery and guilt?

"Barnes," you call out. "You can stop this. This isn't real, nothing in this place is real!" You dash forward and grab him around legs, hefting with all your strength to take some of the weight off his arms, to stop his swinging. "C'mon, this is your head, I can't—" You look up, scowling at the chains. The lash comes again and it licks across your right arm, stripping the skin and leaving a bloody welt in its wake. "Barnes!" you plead, pulling tighter against his knees. "Please try!"

You look up again and his eyes are locked with yours, surprise written clearly on his face. "You're real?" he asks, and before the whip can touch him again, the chain shatters—no, _explodes_—into dust.

Barnes drops to the ground and rolls with you. Once you get yourself reoriented, you scramble to him, lifting his head up again and shifting him onto his side, keeping his savaged back from touching the ground.

"Please," he whispers, staring up at nothing. "Please, just let me die. Just kill me."

"I can't do that," you reply, wiping the grit and grime from his cheeks. "You're still needed. You have to come back with me."

He closes his eyes and turns his head away from you. "There isn't—I can't. This is all that there is," he says, his voice so quiet you have to strain to hear him.

"Please, Sergeant. _Bucky_. You need to fight."

He takes a deep, shuddering breath, but whatever he says next is lost as you feel yourself ripped backward, the entire not-place evaporating, replaced with the rapidly solidifying shape of the Brooklyn brownstone. You feel Ana's desperation as she attempts to cram you back inside your body, clearly working by instinct. It's a kind of pain there aren't words for. Once again, you find yourself having to ignore the growing desire to let go completely and float away from the agony.

Then, in an instant, you're back, kneeling on the filthy wood floor.

Blue eyes are staring into yours.

"You're really here," he exhales.

You're only able to groan in response, shifting up onto your knees. You feel like you've had your brain rewired, like you're still settling back into your own limbs and organs and nerve endings. Everything is too bright and too loud and too itchy.

You catch your breath and then drag yourself closer to Barnes. He's shaking and wild-eyed, glance flicking from the corners of the room, to the doorway, back to you. He's seems to be clinging to reality by a fractional margin, and you're worried that he'll slip back into a waking nightmare at any moment.

"We need to get you out of here, Sergeant. Somewhere safe, and warm, and not about to fall down around our heads," you tell him, gently removing a cockroach that had settled on the toe of your boot. The little beasties are disease vectors, but having walked in the skins of hundreds of non-humans, you can no longer bring yourself to squash them outright.

"My arm," he says, ignoring your previous statement. "Who—? _You?_"

"Sorry, a real doctor could have done much better, but I'm all you've got. I don't think you're in any immediate danger of bleeding out, but I really need better equipment to make sure that you can heal the rest on your own."

He gingerly touches the sutures with his good hand. "Why?" he asks. "You're not a maintenance tech."

"You're confused again," you sigh. "I'm not with HYDRA. You're not with HYDRA anymore either, for that matter. You're free, Barnes."

He blinks, examining the information. "You're with Steve," he exhales, eyebrows lifting as the information slides into place. "He's… he's here?"

"Of course I am," a solemn voice calls from the hallway.

"And where have you been?" you accuse, head snapping around to stare at Rogers. He has the decency to look sheepish.

"I got here twenty minutes ago," he admits. "But every time I tried to reach you, uh, _someone_ stopped me."

"Ana."

"I can only assume. You both looked like you were dead and I was… I was frantic," he admits. "I think she was afraid I'd do more harm than good."

You grope around until you find your cellphone where you'd dropped it earlier. You call her back and though she picks up quickly, she stays quiet on the other end.

"Shadow?" you ask, using the pet name so she knows you aren't angry.

"…Yeah?"

"I'm okay. We got Barnes back, and you are amazing. Why did you stop Rogers from helping?"

"Well," she starts, clearly exhausted, "If he moved you, it would have made it harder to put you back. I told you I wasn't sure if I could do this. I didn't know if that would mess it up. When I practice with the Professor and Dr. Grey, they sit very still for me and we're all in the same room."

You slump forward, rubbing the back of your head with your free hand. "That makes sense," you tell her. "You made a call to err on the side of caution, and in this particular case, I think you were right to do so. Good job."

"Thanks," she says. "I'm really tired, though. And hungry. Is that how you feel after you shift a lot?"

"Wrung out and ravenous," you confirm. "Go raid the kitchen and then get some rest. You earned it."

"Sounds good. When he's better, tell Barnes I said hello," she mumbles rather sleepily. "And that HYDRA are a bunch of _assholes_."

"Language," you chuckle before she hangs up.

You look back over your shoulder at the two men. Neither has moved since you made the call to Ana. Steve's got his arms crossed firmly across his chest, staring a hole in the floor. Barnes has his head tucked against his knees.

After several long, uncomfortable moments, Steve swallows audibly, breaking the uneasy silence. He looks up, clears his throat, and says, "Heya, Buck."

The response comes so quick, so completely without hesitation, that it catches you all off-guard.

"Heya, pal."


	4. Chapter 4

"Farewells can be shattering, but returns are surely worse. Solid flesh can never live up to the bright shadow cast by its absence."

-Margaret Atwood, _The Blind Assassin_

* * *

"I really hate to put the kibosh on this painfully overdue reunion, but we ought to get Barnes to that safehouse, Steve. I think his sutures will hold, but this is hardly the environment a person should convalesce in."

"Right," Rogers says, shaking his head and breaking the spell woven by Barnes' lapse into his former speech patterns.

"I'm not sure how long I can hold on," Barnes mutters. "Being lucid, I mean. It comes and goes." He wrinkles his brow like his own words have left him confused.

"I suppose the vodka doesn't help," you observe, toeing one of the many empty bottles scattered around the room. You stop to pick up your medical kit, zipping it closed before slinging the strap around your shoulder.

"Actually, the vodka is the only thing keeping me from putting a bullet in my mouth," he snaps.

Steve flinches and takes a step back. "Buck…"

"I didn't get the same dose as you, Rogers," he continues. "Whatever they shot me full of in that prison doesn't work quite as well as your version. It takes a lot, but I can get drunk if I really try."

"Your metabolism may be enhanced, along with your ability to heal, but your liver and kidneys can only flush your system so fast," you reprimand. "That said, I'll gladly take failing but salvageable organs over a gunshot wound to your head," you challenge.

He sneers at you. "Look, lady, you don't know shit about me, and neither does _he_," he says, jerking his head towards Rogers. "I told you before, but you wouldn't listen. That guy he's been chasing, James Barnes, he's dead. I killed him, and he ain't coming back."

"Whatever you say, jerk," Steve counters, before striding forward and pulling the other man up from the floor. "You gonna walk out or do I have to carry you?"

Barnes tries to shove him off but only sets himself to stumbling into the nearest wall. He braces himself there for a moment, furious, before relenting. "I can walk, but not on my own," he says from behind clenched teeth.

You motion for Steve to stay where he is and get your shoulder under Barnes' good arm, helping him off the wall and back on both feet.

"You can insult me all you want," you warn him. "You're hardly the scariest or meanest person I've ever dealt with, so good luck putting me off with all that barking. Now let's get the hell out of here."

He just snorts and pulls you along with him, leaning on you like he would a crutch. Slowly but surely, you all shuffle out of the brownstone, Steve trailing behind like a deflated balloon.

"I'll get him into the car, you follow on the bike," Steve says, walking ahead to wait at the bottom of the stoop, ready to catch either or both of you should anyone's balance be lost.

"Can you handle him on your own, if he—?"

Barnes tenses and then hangs his head. "Not even on your best day, Rogers."

You sigh and carefully navigate the steps leading down to the sidewalk. Once you've got Barnes steady, Rogers takes him from you and half-drags, half-carries his exhausted friend the last few feet to the curb. You help load the blessedly silent Barnes into Rogers' waiting car; a nondescript grey Buick with Oklahoma tags.

You lean in over the open passenger door as Steve gets Barnes' belt across his chest and buckled.

"What I saw in there," you begin, shaking your head. "I get the impression that was a memory."

He looks away, confirming your suspicion.

"I know they're only words, and if I could do more to—I'm sorry that happened to you, Barnes. Inadequate and flimsy, I know, but it's all I have to offer. Aside from sloppy sutures and painkillers."

"Those don't work on me," he says with a slight shrug of his shoulders, which causes his entire body to seize up as he inadvertently moves the damaged muscle. Steve pulls back but doesn't comment, and both of you allow Barnes to get his breathing under control as the pain subsides. "I burn through 'em too quick."

"They found a combination and quantity that works just fine on Rogers, so I'm fairly certain we can sort something out that'll be effective," you assure him. "If HYDRA never did, it's because they're animals, not because you're immune to opioids or alternative pain blockers. We'll figure it out."

He looks at you like you're talking about conjuring up a unicorn, like you're insane or deeply stupid.

"I mean it, Sergeant. You are not nearly as mysterious and unknowable as you think," you add, throwing him a lopsided smirk to take any sting out of the remark. "Try not to kill Rogers en route, okay?"

A shallow nod is all you receive before you shut the door, huffing quietly as a knot of tension that had settled somewhere beneath your breastbone slowly comes undone.

"I'll meet you over there," Steve says before walking around the front of the ugly little car and sliding into the driver's seat.

"Try not to take a sodding hour to get there this time," you warn, only half-jokingly, before heading back down the street toward the coffee shop you'd left your bike parked in front of. It seems like a lifetime ago that you'd spoken to the neighborhood kid about real estate and gender roles in immigrant communities. A quick glance at your watch shows that only a few hours have passed.

As promised, the Superleggera remains unmolested precisely where you left it, along with your helmet. You get yourself sorted quickly, jamming the depleted kit back into the storage compartment before roughly pulling your helmet on. Once the engine is humming, you peel out into the street, heading back toward Steve's car. He's already at the end of the block, idling at the corner, but hits the gas when he catches you in the rearview.

It's not a terribly long ride to Queens, even with evening traffic starting to build up, and Rogers seems to know a few shortcuts. You still pull ahead of him, your own (bad) driving habits superseding the noted benefits of sticking together. Cars are so _slow_.

When you reach the safehouse, you can't help but wonder how much the purchase had cost S.H.I.E.L.D. and how they managed to keep it under their ownership once the agency had been broken down to its component parts. Probably something Fury and Romanoff arranged under several false names and phony deed transactions. Bloody s_pies_.

There's no driveway or garage to speak of, so you mount the curb and bring the bike around the side of the house, behind a long, well-maintained hedge. You dismount, stash your helmet, and meet Rogers and Barnes a few minutes later at the front of the house. Apparently Rogers took your warning about punctuality to heart.

Barnes is starting to resist Rogers' assistance, swearing at him in a mix of Russian and English. Steve is struggling to keep him moving up the short walkway leading to the front door, clearly distressed as his friend continues to deteriorate.

"Quickly," you hiss at him, propping up Barnes on the other side. The pair of you manage to get him inside the house without things devolving into an outright brawl. Thankfully, he's still weak and isn't able to do much except squirm and curse.

"Bucky…" Steve starts, trying to keep the situation under control as Barnes twists against you both. "Buck, come on."

"Kitchen," you direct, pulling them both to the back of the house, where you'd spotted the gleam of stainless steel appliances.

"Shouldn't we get him into a bed?" Steve asks, pulling his head back just in time to avoid an elbow to the face.

"No. Kitchen table will be easier to examine him on, and we'll have a close supply of water, and heat," you explain, grunting as Barnes manages to twist your arm the wrong way, snapping your ulna in several places. There's a short burst of intense discomfort before you turn your pain receptors off. A few seconds more, and the damage has been erased; arm good as new.

"I heard that," Steve says, referring to the sound of the bone breaking. "You okay?"

"Perfectly fine," you reply, and cast a sidelong glance at the spitting, swearing, struggling Barnes. "Не сделать это снова," you tell him in Russian.

He balks, staring at you, shocked at the unexpected order and the language it was delivered in.

"We're trying to help you, remember?" you finish, before finally reaching the kitchen.

"Делай что хочешь," he snarls. "Я не ваша собака больше."

"He thinks we're HYDRA," you tell Steve. "That we're bringing him in to be wiped."

"Jesus, no! Buck, never. We're not—"

"Who knows how many times he fought them off while they dragged him to one of their secret bunkers or labs to torture all traces of James Barnes out of his head?" you snap, disgusted and furious. "Do your people have an estimate on how many of them are still active?"

"Too many," Steve answers. "I'll get him on the table. I don't think there's anything in this house that'll keep him restrained, though."

"Just hold him down for a moment," you instruct, pulling your phone out of your jacket once more.

A minute ticks by and you're back on the line with Ana.

"We've taken him to a safehouse, but he's combative and slipping," you explain. "I need another push to bring him out of it. We can't have the Winter Soldier rampaging through Queens."

"I'd stop him if—" Steve argues before you cut him off.

"And if he needed to be brought down _permanently_, if he threatened the lives of civilians, could you do that, Captain?" you growl.

Steve claps his jaw shut and shakes his head. "No."

"Back to Plan A then."

"You're sure?" Ana asks, and you can clearly hear the exhaustion in her voice. This is the most she's ever flexed her psychic muscles, but you're proud that she doesn't complain.

"Positive. Do what you can."

There's no delicacy in her push this time; she's more confident of her abilities, of what to do, and in a fraction of second, you're outside yourself being funneled towards Barnes and then you're in.

You take a moment to look around, momentarily confused until you finally recognize where you've seen a setup like this before. You're in a bank vault, of all places. You raise a brow at the walls of safe deposit boxes, the reinforced cage and thick steel door beyond. In the center of the room is a row of computers and their corresponding monitors, bio-metric tracking programs blinking on the screens. And a chair. A very _distinct_ chair.

"Oh no…" you breathe, and then The Winter Soldier appears, seated and half-naked, his metal arm being prodded by a technician holding what looks a lot like a soldering iron. Without warning, the Soldier throws the other man across the room. Multiple figures manifest themselves in a circle around the chair, each one in head-to-toe tactical gear, and each one with an assault rifle aimed at the Soldier's head.

He doesn't make another move, seemingly oblivious to the panic he's caused.

A voice buzzes in your ear, and a new form rises up out of the swirling, amorphous dreamscape. An older man, wearing a sharp suit and too-shiny shoes.

_Alexander Pierce_.

"Mission report."

Barnes doesn't answer.

"Mission report, now!"

Still no answer.

Pierce stalks forward and backhands the Asset hard across the face. Slowly, deliberately, the Soldier rights himself, though he looks no more coherent now than before as far as you can tell.

"The man on the bridge," he says quietly. "Who was he?"

"You met him earlier this week on another assignment," Pierce answers, matter-of-factly.

"I knew him," Barnes continues, more to himself than anyone else.

"Your work has been a gift to Mankind. You helped shape the century."

You see doubt flicker across Barnes' face.

"Society's at a tipping point between order and chaos," Pierce drones on, deeply in love with the sound of his own voice. "Tomorrow morning, we're gonna give it a push. But if you don't do your part, I can't do mine, and HYDRA can't give the world the freedom it deserves."

"But I knew him," the Asset says again, finally lifting his eyes to look at Pierce. Something like a smile twists his mouth before quickly fading away.

"Prep him," Pierce snaps, drawing away from his human weapon. He looks annoyed that his monologue hadn't inspired more compliance in its intended audience.

One of the technicians protests, noting that the Asset has been out of cryo for too long, that he's too unstable.

In the most infuriatingly nonchalant tone, Pierce says, "Then wipe him, _and start over_._"_

The man in the chair looks gut-punched as he's offered a bite guard, and you can see the anger growing in his eyes as he accepts it, can feel the panic as they push him back, as he's locked in place. He remembers this part of the process and is terrified. His chest heaves as both halves of an evil-looking mask sizzling with arcs of blue electricity slide into position over his head and face.

He screams. The smell of burning hair and skin sets you stomach churning. You let the horror wash over you, allowing it to build into a dangerous wrath. You want to hurt the people who did this, who are capable of doing it to another human being.

With a start, you realize all the men in the room—except for the one in the chair—are looking at you.

"Who…?" one of them asks, but he chokes on the rest of his question as you snap a hand forward and break his windpipe.

How this is possible is not important. Whatever the reason or explanation, you can interact with this memory, you can change it. You practically crow with satisfaction.

The room erupts into gunfire and bedlam, because even though this didn't actually happen, Barnes' brain is filling in the gaps. The mind's capacity for self-deception is astounding.

You move; kicking, breaking, tearing open and crushing the fragile bodies of your enemies with an almost unnatural economy of movement. You feel triumphant, untouchable as you reach into the genetic memory of an untold number of apex predators, perfect killing machines, until the line between your instincts and theirs begins to blur. Moments like this are rare. The animal part of your brain revels in the freedom you've allowed it, but you've been taught that indulging the savage part of your psyche is dangerous; a trump card best left safe in the deck unless no other options are left. You hold on by the barest margin, riding the crest of the storm, hyper-aware that it could swallow you up at any moment.

Suddenly, and without fanfare, the room falls silent; the still-warm bodies of your opponents lying broken and crumpled from one end of the vault to the other. You're breathing hard, trying to quash the giddy joy fizzing through your system, making it that much harder to retain control, to stay mostly roll your shoulders and find your center, thoughts finally clearing enough for you to remember yourself and where you are.

The machine is still frying Barnes' brain, and he's still screaming, so you grab one of the hydraulic arms and yank it back, off of his skin, then do the same to its opposite on the other side. You turn and face the computer, selecting a command prompt that releases the restraints on his arms.

"Barnes?" you ask, adjusting the controls and bringing the chair back upright.

He's lying perfectly still, save for the rapid rise-and-fall of his chest as he breathes. Slowly, groggily, his eyes open. He spits out the bite guard, breathing hard behind bared teeth.

"Where?" he croaks.

"Just a nightmare," you tell him. "A bad memory."

"I don't remember anything like this," he says, finally absorbing the scope of the damage to the vault and its former occupants. The place looks like a slaughterhouse. "How did you—?"

"I wouldn't go looking for a logical explanation," you offer. "This is happening largely in your subconscious. I don't think there are any concrete rules about what can or can't happen."

He's shivering, still fighting to catch his breath. "I gotta get out of this chair," he gasps, lurching forward. "I gotta—I can't. This goddamn _chair_._"_ He turns away from you and his stomach heaves. You reach forward and slowly press your fingers against the sweat-slick skin of his back. He doesn't flinch this time.

"C'mon, I'll help you up," you say, circling around to his front and holding out both hands. "Promise I'm stronger than I look."

"Clearly." Slowly, he reaches out for you and with a bit of effort, you get him on his feet. "I refused at first," he says, and you're not sure what he means. He's resting his chin against your forehead, leaning forward and transferring some of his weight to you. "In the early days, when the Russians had me. I swear I held out as long as I could. They broke me, but I didn't make it easy for 'em."

"I believe you, Barnes."

"How are you even here?" he asks, shivering and jumping at every little sound. You try to will the room into silence, but it doesn't work.

"That's a bit difficult to explain," you warn. "Short version is that my sister is capable of something akin to astral projection. In this particular case, she's projected me into your head."

He's quiet for a long moment.

"Bullshit."

You can't suppress the laughter that manages to sneak past your lips. "Would 'magic!' be a preferable answer?"

"Would make more sense," he counters, turning his head to rest his cheek against your hair. "I'd apologize for having my hands all over you, but I'm too fuckin' tired to move."

"Don't worry about it."

"Thanks," he says after another long pause. "I never expected a rescue."

"Well, you make a terrible damsel-in-distress," you chuckle darkly.

He glances down at you. "I mean it. I stopped hoping Steve or the Commandos would find me within weeks of being captured. Not that I blamed them for moving on. They had a war to win."

"It wasn't—He didn't abandon you, Barnes. He crashed Schmidt's plane into the Arctic not long after you died. Or after he thought you'd died."

"I know," he admits. "I saw the exhibit at the museum in D.C."

"You went to the Smithsonian?"

"After the battle over the Potomac. I had to know if what he'd told me was true; that he'd known me my whole life, that we were friends. I got to the museum and just kept reading the information over and over, the facts and dates, I saw the photos, and newsreels, even a few of the letters I'd sent home to my sisters. They told me—" he swallows hard and you can feel his throat working as he moves closer, as if trying to reassure himself by proximity. "My handlers told me that I was nobody. That they _made_ me. And I was stupid enough to believe them."

"Stop that," you warn. "They didn't sit you down and have a chat over afternoon tea. I've seen your file. I probably know more about what was done to you than _you_ do, and Steve knows more than me. It was not that simple."

He stiffens and fails to suppress a full-body shudder.

"It's over now," you soothe. "Everything gets better from here."

"I don't know how to be the guy he remembers. The guy from the museum," he admits.

"He doesn't expect you to be," you tell him. "No one does. He's not the same person from before either. The war changed you both, and then what happened after changed you even more dramatically. People don't survive those sorts of traumas and come out the other side unaltered."

He grunts and takes a step back, looking down at your hands resting in his. "So how do you get out of here?" he asks. "Last time you sort of vanished and then I woke up."

"Bit fuzzy on the particulars myself," you answer. "I imagine Ana is waiting for some sort of psychic signal that will let her know things have calmed down. When she knows it's safe to yank me out, she will."

"Does it hurt?"

"It's extremely unpleasant," you admit with a shrug. "Nothing I can't handle, though." As if that had been the signal she was waiting for, you feel Ana tugging at the edges of your mind. "Speak of the Devil and he shall appear," you groan. "Time's up. Catch you on the other side."

The last thing you see is the momentary look of panic on his face, knowing he's about to be left behind again. But then you're back in the safehouse kitchen, and he's relaxed on the sturdy chef's island in the center of the room.

"Welcome back," Rogers says, looking at you and then to Barnes. "You okay?"

"No," Barnes says. "Not remotely."

"But you're here, and you know us, right?"

"Yeah," he sighs. "I know you."

The look of relief, of unadulterated happiness, on Steve's face is so saccharine, you think you might go into diabetic shock just for having witnessed it.

"Rogers, if you could fetch whatever medical supplies are available, I'd appreciate it," you interrupt. "I especially need clean gauze, isopropyl alcohol, hydrogen peroxide, a transfusion kit if you can find one and an IV kit if you can't, saline, and half a liter of O-negative donor blood if it's kept in stock. I'm not sure if he can even develop infections, but a round of strong antibiotics would be helpful, too."

Steve drags the back of one hand across his eyes and Barnes looks away.

"On it," the Captain says, before slipping out of the kitchen.

Once he's clear of the room, you shuck your riding jacket off and drag the light sweater you'd worn underneath up over your head. You have a white camisole on underneath and after a quick check to confirm it isn't soaked in blood as well, you tossed the ruined outer garment into the trash. Damn, but you'd really liked that sweater.

"We need to get you out of those clothes," you say to Barnes as he slowly props himself up on his good arm. "After I clean up your sutures, we should try to get at least half a liter of blood back in you. Think you can drink some water in the meantime?"

"Yeah," he nods. "My stomach is pretty bad, but I can keep most liquids down."

"You were having trouble with solid food?" you ask, padding across the tile floor to the refrigerator.

"I almost always get sick," he answers, watching your every move.

You pull a large bottle out of the fridge. "I suppose your handlers weren't particularly concerned about a balanced diet, so we might need to do some work rebuilding your digestive system."

You return to his side on the island and hand him the water. "Drink slowly. May I?" you motion to the hem of his shirt. He must have ripped the left sleeve off before cutting into his arm, but the rest of the shirt has been left unmolested. Aside from being filthy, that is.

He narrows his eyes at you and shrinks back.

"I need to make sure you're okay aside from the knife wound," you tell him. "I promise I'll tell you everything I'm going to do, and I'll wait for you to give me permission before I do it, okay?"

You watch his Adam's apple bob before he nods.

"Thank you. Let's get you sitting upright first." You help him adjust his position, swinging his long legs around to hang over the edge before his feet hit the floor.

"Is it okay if I cut the left side open? I don't want to have to move your arm if I can avoid it."

"Why?" he asks, his head listing slightly to the side.

"Because it'll hurt, and you could pull your stitches."

He stares at you then finally shakes his head. "I don't care what you do with it. Burn it if you want."

You make a non-committal noise and rummage around in several drawers before finding a pair of scissors.

"I'll do my best not to disturb your shoulder," you tell him, pulling the bottom of the garment taut before sliding the scissors forward and sheering the material apart in a neat line. You glance up and see that his gaze is locked firmly on the blades, mouth pressed into a thin, strained line.

"Breathe, Sergeant," you remind him, carefully setting the scissors aside and peeling the shirt back away from his skin.

There are scars, as you'd expected, and not just the thick, ropey keloids branching out from the prosthetic (and you can't help but note the likelihood that HYDRA mounted it while the metal was still hot enough to burn). Small puckers of raised flesh indicate old gunshot wounds, and slashes of rough, raised skin mark the places where a knife or some other edged weapon had parted skin and muscle.

"Your digestive issues may be compounded by a build-up of internal scar tissue," you mutter, drawing your fingers away from his skin. "Is it all right if I inspect these with my hands?"

He nods again. You should probably wait for Rogers to come back with the requested supplies, amongst which you're sure you'll find medical gloves, but there's no guarantee that Barnes will remain this agreeable much longer. He seems very nervous about any direct physical contact.

Gently, you press your fingers against his lower abdomen, making mental notes of each mark that might be a likely candidate for sub-dermal scarring. You can't ignore that he's quite a bit underweight for someone of his size and body type. You can clearly see each rib and the outline of his sternum. His hip bones jut out from behind the waistband of his pants.

"We can break a lot of this down with massage therapy when you're ready for it. The deeper damage may need laser treatment, or surgery. We can also discuss using broad spectrum systemic enzymes that will do the same, but you might not need anything that serious given the serum's augmentations."

"Yeah, sure," he breathes quietly.

"I'm sorry, I know this is uncomfortable," you apologize, pulling your hands away. "But I want you to know you have options, so that when Steve gets you to a proper doctor, you'll have some basic knowledge of what to ask for, or ask about."

"Just keep waiting for the pain to start," he tells you, head hanging low. "Not used to being molly-coddled like this without it being a trick or a trap."

Without thinking, you reach up and press your hand against his cheek. "Hey…"

He doesn't recoil or try to pull away, but his breath hitches at the contact.

"I know you have _no reason_ to trust me. You don't know me. But I need you to hear what I'm saying, Barnes. I will never hurt you if I can help it. Some of the things I have to do—from a medical perspective—may not be entirely pleasant, but I'll still do everything I can to minimize the pain I cause."

"But why?" he asks. "Why make that much effort? It's all the same in the end."

"Because you're a person. Because I don't want to hurt you and you shouldn't expect to be hurt."

He glances up at you from behind the hair that has fallen forward over his brow.

"I know you've been conditioned to expect punishment and pain for no better reason than because it amused them, or because it was an expedient way to develop obedience," you continue. "But you're not with those monsters anymore."

"That's what you don't get," he says, shaking his head and pulling away from the hand against his cheek. "I'm the monster."

"Barnes, that isn't true—" you begin to protest, before the rest of your argument is interrupted.

"Everything okay in here?" Steve asks, slowly re-entering the kitchen, carrying a crate full of jumbled medical equipment and supplies.

"I asked for, like, _five things_, Rogers," you scold, taking the crate from him and shoving it onto a nearby counter.

"I got to the supply closet and panicked," he answers with a shrug. "I can't pronounce half the words on the labels in there."

You explore the contents of the crate, pulling out the items you need most.

"I see she couldn't wait to get your shirt off, Buck," Steve chuckles, though it sounds a bit forced to you.

"We can look for clean clothes once you've had a chance to scrub down," you tell Barnes over your shoulder. "I'd be happy to let you soak for a few hours, but I'd rather you abstain until your wounds are closed."

He doesn't respond, so you turn around to ask him if he's heard you only to see that he's shaking hard, from head to foot. Steve is already moving to hold him steady on the island, afraid he'll fall off.

"What the—?"

"No cold," Barnes stammers. "Please. I can just—I can… It's okay, I don't mind being dirty."

"What are you afraid of?" you ask, flanking him; standing by should Steve's grip on his good arm not be enough to keep him from toppling over as he continues to tremble.

"_De-con-tam-in-ation,"_ he manages, teeth chattering hard.

"Is that what they called it when you were sent to shower? After a mission?"

He nods, goose pimples stippling along his skin like a wild rash.

"They used cold water?" You throw a sidelong glance at Steve, who once again looks angry enough to commit bloody murder upon the first person who so much as _sneezes_ in his friend's direction.

"Y-yes," Barnes confirms.

"We're not going to do that," you explain. "Warm water only. Hot, if you prefer."

His eyes focus on you before he switches his gaze to Steve, as if looking for assurance that you're telling the truth.

"I'm going to get the rest of the shirt off, okay? Steve will go find a blanket or a towel so you don't get too cold while we finish up in here," you tell him. The shaking subsides a bit, though he still looks haunted by the prospect of a sponge bath. Fucking HYDRA. Probably hosed him down right before returning him to cryo. Just another tool to be disinfected and put away when they were done using it.

Steve makes sure that you've got a solid grip on Barnes before he slips out of the kitchen again, mumbling about a linen closet upstairs that should have extra blankets.

As if he were actually hypothermic, you rub both palms against his good arm, hoping it'll help counter the phantom chills that have him shivering despite the relative warmth of the house. Once he settles down again, you finish removing the rest of his clothes (and a disturbing number of knives strapped and taped to his body), save for his underthings, tossing all of it into the corner to be thrown out later. He doesn't seem body-conscious, which you're grateful for. Enough of what you're doing seems to have him on edge already.

"How bad is the pain?" you ask him.

"S-still functional," he says.

"Okay, but if it gets worse, you need to tell me."

Steve comes back shortly thereafter with a down comforter that looks very warm.

"See? Much better," you croon softly, helping to drape the blanket over Barnes' shoulders. He takes a deep breath and nods.

After thoroughly washing your hands in the kitchen sink, you snap on a pair of gloves and pick up the bag of donor blood. You check the labels for the expiration date and note that it's relatively fresh and O-negative, as requested, so you're not worried about compatibility. You open up the transfusion kit, relieved to find it's a brand you're familiar with, and line up the components.

"What's the difference between one of these and an IV?" Steve asks, watching as you set everything up.

"Mmm, a transfusion kit has a double chamber and a mesh filter. Both keep micro thrombi—those are very small blood clots—from being infused into the patient. Start warming up that blood, would you?"

"How?" he asks, picking up the bag with a barely hidden look of revulsion.

"Just hold it between your hands. We don't want it to reach room temperature, but it can't be that cold either. We should really be using a warmer, but—" you make a vague gesture. "I'm thrilled you lot keep these kits stocked. This would be dodgy to do with a regular IV."

After about five minutes, you take the bag back from Rogers and check the contents for any signs of large clots or haemolysis. Spotting none, you prepare the transfusion line with the ease of dedicated practice, before returning your attention to Barnes.

"I'm going to clean the inside your elbow with antiseptic," you tell him, waiting for his nod of permission before doing so. "Steve, cut me a few pieces of medical tape, please."

Rogers does as you ask, watching with barely contained anxiety as you prep the cannula—the "needle" that slides into the vein.

"This is going to sting a bit," you tell Barnes. "Still okay to proceed?"

He chews on his bottom lip and stares at the small spot you'd wiped on his arm. You wait, giving him as much time as he needs.

"Yeah, I'm okay. This isn't as bad as… as I remember."

"Flatterer," you tease, sticking your tongue out from between your teeth. "One, two…" you slide the thin tube into the vein, feeling the subtle 'pop!' as it moves into place. "Perfect. Well done."

Barnes exhales suddenly, letting go of some of the tension he'd been allowing to build.

"Easy," you murmur, patting him on the shoulder. "You're doing fine, and we're almost finished."

You quickly secure the transfusion set and the cannula with the strips of tape Steve prepared earlier. You raise the bag above your head and watch as the contents slowly make their way down the line at an acceptable rate.

"How long will this take?" Barnes asks, following the arc of your arm.

"About three hours for the whole bag," you tell him. "But I doubt we'll need that much. You're remarkably resilient."

He huffs.

"Why, you have somewhere you need to be?" you ask with a crooked grin. "You severed an artery in that brownstone, Barnes. You're lucky you didn't bleed out."

"Wasn't thinkin' clearly," he grouses, looking away.

"You did that to yourself?" Steve asks, shocked. "I thought—I figured you took a bad hit in a fight, Bucky. Jesus Christ…"

"Your ma would make you eat half a bar of soap if she heard you swearing like that, Rogers," Barnes replies.

Steve covers his face with his hands and turns away.

"Take a break," you suggest to him. "This is going to be a long night."

"Copy that," he says, before slowly wandering out of the room, doing a bad job of hiding the way his shoulders shake as he tries not to _sob_.

"Fuckin' kid always was too—" Barnes starts.

"Don't," you hiss, narrowing your eyes. "Don't you make fun of him. He _loves _you, you big idiot, and he doesn't know what the hell he's doing, except that he has to help you somehow."

He opens his mouth as if to protest but then clamps it shut.

"You—You're right," he admits. "But I don't want him to think… This isn't permanent."

"You'll get better, it'll be a slow and difficult process—"

"That's not what I mean," he says with a slight shake of his head. "I can't stay with him. You get me fixed up so I'm not about to keel over, and then I'm gone. As far away from Steve and his new friends as I can get."

"What the hell is wrong with you?" you ask, unable to check your own irritation.

"It's not safe for me to be around him."

"Being around him is the only way you are safe," you correct. "If you run off again, do you really think he won't chase after you? That he won't be hunting HYDRA down regardless? Do you think he's spent the last few years doing anything that one might consider remotely safe? For fuck's sake, Barnes. Get over yourself."

He gapes at you.

"You are quite possibly the most important person in the world to Steve, but you're hardly the most dangerous. He fought off an alien invasion masterminded by a Norse _god_. He beat them. He'll beat HYDRA, too."

"You don't know what they're capable of," he snaps. "Anyone he's close to—"

"He's not close to anyone save the other Avengers," you inform him. "He doesn't socialize, or date, or do public appearances, nothing. Not since S.H.I.E.L.D. fell."

"Doesn't change what I have to do. I'm _broken_. You're a doctor, or close enough, you really think I'll get to a point where I'll be anything but a problem he needs to handle? What's he gonna do when Uncle Sam figures out who I am and what I've been doing for the last seventy years? He supposed to fight that battle for me, too?"

"What makes you think he wouldn't have to do any of that just because you're not around? Besides, you're talking about the man who has Tony Stark on speed dial. Do you have any idea how many lawyers that man keeps on retainer? The Avengers destroyed half the damn city fighting Loki and his hoard. Can you guess how many people—how many _important_, well-connected people—tried to sue them, hold them responsible, tried to have them locked up on federal charges, after all that?"

He just stares at you, eyes softening around the edges.

"Want to know how much time any of them have spent in jail or even in federal custody for questioning?"

He looks away.

"None, Barnes. Stark had all that nonsense put to bed in a matter of days, and slapped more people and government agencies with legal injunctions and counter-suits than the American legal system had ever seen before. He had Pepper Potts on every major news network doing damage control, and a small army of PR drones flooding social media and television with support for the Avengers. It was incredible to watch."

"I'm not an Avenger. I didn't save the world," he protests.

"You're Steve's best friend. You're a war hero, a Howling Commando; you absolutely saved the world. Whatever happened after you fell was not your fault. You are not responsible for your own kidnapping, torture, and captivity. If anyone wants to argue otherwise, they won't just have Steve Rogers to answer to."

He sighs and holds his forehead with his good hand.

"You're safe with him," you finish. "No more running. Your war is over. Now's the part when you get to go home."


	5. Chapter 5

"Farewells can be shattering, but returns are surely worse. Solid flesh can never live up to the bright shadow cast by its absence."

-Margaret Atwood, _The Blind Assassin_

* * *

"How're you holding up?" you ask Steve, having left Barnes in the kitchen where he's managing the transfusion well enough. You don't plan on leaving him alone for long.

Rogers is sitting at the head of the long table in the dining room. He's hunched over the lacquered surface, plucking at an old-fashioned doily draped across it.

"I honestly can't believe we're sitting here, with Buck just a few feet down the hall," he says. "Doesn't seem real, not after chasing him for so long."

You sigh and slide into the nearest empty seat.

"I know things appear grim," you tell him, "but he's doing _much_ better than I expected. He's agitated and wary, but he's doing what we've asked of him. He's letting us help."

"I know that," he says. "I just wish I could fix it. Flip a switch and make it okay for him."

"That would be convenient," you agree, crossing your arms over your chest. "I'm going to go find the bathroom with the biggest tub and get it started. Can you keep an eye on things while I do that?"

"How much longer should he have that transfusion going?" he asks, standing.

"As long as it takes me to get the bathroom set up. Once he's clean, we can see if he's up for food, though he told me he has a hard time with solids. Maybe soup?"

Steve nods and drifts out of the dining room.

"You should probably eat too," you call after him. "Any requests?"

"Not fussy," he calls back.

"Well," you comment to yourself, "this has been _such_ a fun day."

* * *

You don't plan on actually putting Barnes _in_ the tub. His sutures need to stay dry, but it's clear he hasn't had much time for personal hygiene lately and that needs to change if he's going to avoid infection. Plus, there's the odor.

Taking care to make sure the water is warm-bordering-on-hot, you putter around the spa-like master bathroom, gathering soap, towels, shampoo, and smaller cloths.

You can hear Barnes and Rogers slowly making their way up the (ridiculously) long staircase, with Steve encouraging his friend as they go.

"That's it Buck, slow and steady, you can see the steam from here. Told ya she'd make sure it was warm enough…"

Barnes just grunts in response, hovering in the doorway as they finally reach their destination.

"Feeling okay?" you ask, motioning for him to come in and take a seat on the toilet.

"Tired," he grumbles. "Head hurts."

You don't bother explaining that he has so much going on physically and mentally that there is a veritable laundry list of reasons he would have a headache, and instead help guide him to sit down. He still has the comforter wrapped around his shoulders, so you carefully pull it away, replacing it with a fluffy white towel instead.

"Just like before, I won't do anything or touch you without getting permission first. Can I unhook the transfusion? I'd like to leave the port in; we may need it over the next few days."

"Sure," he says, extending his arm.

You get everything unhooked, and check the medical tape to make sure nothing has shifted during the process. You drop the half-empty bag of blood into the small trash can next to the toilet.

"Ready?"

He nods and glances at the water in the tub.

"I swear it's not cold," you tell him. "Want me to touch it first?"

He nods again and pays rapt attention as you dip your bare hand into the water. You let it rest there for a few moments before pulling it back out. His right hand snaps forward and he grabs you around your wrist, pulling back until his fingers brush over your palm, feeling the residual heat.

"Okay," he breathes. "_Okay_."

Steve hands you one of the smaller cloths and you dip it into the tub, wringing out the excess water before pumping a dot of liquid body soap into the center. You work everything into a lather and then face Barnes again.

"We'll start from the neck down, okay? We'll wash your face with cooler water from the sink. This is too hot for that."

Slowly but surely, you get him reasonably clean. There's a lot of dirt, grime, and blood ground into his skin, but you do your best to get the worst of it. He seems pleasantly surprised by the feel of the warm water and soft material against his skin, though you notice he still flinches through most of it.

One final wipe down and you're satisfied. As mentioned at the start, you take a fresh cloth and run it under cool water from the sink, then press it against the back of his neck (he _sighs_ and sinks into your hand) before washing behind his ears, around to the front of his face.

"Need a shave, Buck," Rogers comments, leaning up against the doorframe where he's been supervising the entire procedure. "Y'look like a bum."

"I got a beautiful woman waiting on me hand and foot, and _I'm_ the bum?" Barnes counters, and you pinch his earlobe in retaliation. Those blue eyes dart to yours, momentarily alarmed, before realizing you're not really trying to hurt him.

"Sorry," he says, flushing pink along his cheeks. "That was… I didn't mean to make it sound like…"

You laugh quietly and toss the face cloth into the sink.

"Just need to scrub your hair a bit and you'll be finished," you tell him. "We can do that in the sink as well, or you can try leaning over the tub. Whichever seems preferable, _my lord_."

Steve chuckles and helps Barnes onto his feet. He steps toward the sink before looking at you.

"How does this work?"

"Turn 'round and lean back as much as you can. Steve will help you keep your balance."

The three of you maneuver into place. You turn the tap on again, opting for water hot enough that Barnes can feel the heat against the back of his neck, but not what you would consider scalding.

"We'll make this quick, I promise," you tell him, motioning for Steve to help tip his head back.

Barnes gives a quick, stiff nod.

You work the water into his hair, letting it soak the thick, oily strands. Barnes groans.

"Everything okay?"

"Feels _good_," he says, eyes fluttering shut.

You smile to yourself and add a small amount of shampoo, pressing the tips of your fingers into his scalp and massaging it in.

Again, he groans.

"Stop embarrassing yourself," Steve teases.

"Have you ever had this done?" Barnes asks, opening his eyes. "Because it's pretty fucking incredible."

Steve just laughs and shakes his head.

"Can we do this forever?" Barnes asks you, tipping his head a little further back, trying to catch sight of you.

"No," you admonish with a smile, gathering the water in your hands and pouring it over his head. "Eyes shut or you'll get shampoo in them."

He hums and does as you ask, the first hint of a real smile playing at the corners of his lips. Steve is grinning broadly, ear-to-ear, obviously pleased by his friend's change in mood.

You make sure the suds are washed out before turning the water off and grabbing another towel. You rub it over his head until his hair is reasonably dry, and then run your fingers through to work out the snags.

"You like it that long?" Steve asks.

Barnes shrugs with his uninjured shoulder as he rights himself against the sink. "Never mattered if I liked it or not."

"Well don't look at me," you grouse, draining the tub and gathering up the used towels. "I draw the line at cutting hair. Tried to trim Ana's once and it was a complete disaster."

"How bad could it have been?" Steve asks.

"She still hasn't forgiven me, and I did it when she was _five_."

You find the hamper in the hallway and wonder if there's a cleaning service that comes by to keep the house in order. After you've dropped the towels off, you meet Barnes and Rogers in one of the guest bedrooms. Steve is pulling open the closet, looking for clothes that will fit his friend.

"How am I gonna get anything over my arm?" Barnes asks, hovering just behind Steve.

"A hoodie should be fine," he answers, finally finding one that he approves of and passing it back to Barnes.

"Speaking of which, we should really immobilize that shoulder," you add, helping Barnes into the oversized zip-up.

"It's fine," he says. "Don't like the idea of being restrained."

"I didn't think—"

"I know," he says, accepting a pair of matching sweatpants from Steve. "I'll need help getting these on."

"Might want to change those underpants too," you add with a smirk, motioning to the grubby boxer-briefs. "And when you're feeling up to it, _wash_that area."

"That another one of your lines in the sand?" Barnes asks, and though he's trying to sound suave, the blush traveling across his cheeks and nose give him away.

"Less a line, more a barbed-wired fence."

You excuse yourself while Steve and Barnes wrestle with the underthings and pants, a litany of swear words exchanged between them both before he finally walks out of the bedroom fully clothed at last.

"You look much better," you observe. "And you _smell_ better, too."

"No arguments there," he agrees. "Steve said something about food?"

You nod and motion for both soldiers to follow as you head back downstairs to the kitchen.

"Soup, probiotics, and a metric ton of vitamins and supplements for you, Sergeant. I think I spotted two steaks in the fridge earlier for the Captain and I."

"You're a mean person," he huffs from behind you. "Anybody ever tell you that?"

"I teach at a school full of largely neglected and ostracized children," you tell him. "I'm told I'm a mean person _hourly_."

"Thought you were a doctor," he says. "Or something close to it."

"She put all that on hold so she could take care of her sister," Steve explains.

The three of you move into the kitchen. Steve helps Barnes into an empty chair at the small table set inside a windowed alcove before tracking down silverware, cups, plates, and a bowl for Barnes' soup.

* * *

A little over an hour later and everyone has eaten to your satisfaction. Barnes looks sleepy enough to fall face-first into his empty bowl.

"Time for bed, I think," you tell Steve.

"Just 10 more minutes," Barnes whines in an alarmingly accurate impression of a cranky child.

"C'mon, big boy," you grunt, getting him onto his feet with Steve's assistance. He loops his right arm around your shoulders and smirks to himself.

"What's so funny?" you ask.

"If some mook had told me 12 hours ago that _this_ is how today would end, I woulda called him a damned liar," he tells you. "Not saying I've changed my mind about what we talked about earlier, but… but this isn't so bad."

"It's gonna be okay, Buck," Steve adds, looking nearly as tired.

"Don't know about 'okay,' Rogers. But I'm not covered in my own blood and piss, no one's tried to shoot me in at least 24 hours, and I've got food in my belly. Don't even feel like throwing it up. That's a pretty fucking good day in my book."

"C'mon, Maudlin McGee, let's get back upstairs. There's a California King up there with your name on it."

"Floor's fine," he says as you head up to the second level. "You an' Stevie can have the bed."

"_Stevie_ and I will each have our _own_ beds as this house is outfitted with several rooms. I expect we'll take turns keeping an eye on you while you rest, besides."

"Just don't let me wake up alone," he says as the three of you move into the master bedroom. "I can't—I can't completely shake the thought that this is just a dream, or some fucked up hallucination. Don't let me wake up and no one be around. I'll lose it."

You catch Steve's gaze behind Barnes' back as you get him settled on the floor.

"Are you sure we can't convince you to sleep in the bed?" you ask. "It'd be better for your arm."

"No, this is great. It's _great_, really. I've been sleeping in alleys and sewers for months. This is the Ritz, doll."

Steve offers him a pillow, which he rejects, and a blanket. Barnes quickly claims _all_ of the blankets, even asking Steve if he can get the big down comforter from earlier.

"You'll suffocate with that many," you warn. "Or overheat."

"No," he counters. "Always cold. Doesn't matter how many blankets there are. I'll _always_ be cold."

Steve looks like he understands and leaves to do as Barnes requested.

You roll your eyes and throw up your hands. "Fine, suit yourself. Sleep on the floor in a mountain of Egyptian cotton and goose feathers."

"Here ya go, Buck," Steve says as he returns with the comforter. Barnes spools it around himself, sighs, and lays back, eyes already drifting shut.

"Prolly gonna wake up screamin'," he says. "Give me a few minutes, though, it'll pass."

Steve swallows hard before motioning for you to take the bed.

"I'm gonna go take a walk," he says, moving into the doorway. "You okay to stay with him until I get back?"

"Of course," you tell him.

"Stop worrying so much, you geezer," Barnes adds from his nest on the floor.

"I won't be long." With that, he leaves the room, shutting the door softly behind him.

"Get some sleep, Sergeant," you instruct, climbing into the oversized bed and stretching your tired limbs.

You wait for the sounds of his breath to even out before briefly considering making a call to Ana, just to let her know everything is okay. A quick glance at your phone squashes that notion, as it's long past midnight. No sense waking her just to tell her everything's fine and she should go back to sleep.

You're only _just_ starting to zone out when Barnes arches off the floor, choking on a scream of pain and terror.

You jump off the mattress and reach for his convulsing form, careful of his stitches, and holding on to the back of his head, pressing down with your other arm against his as he tries to tear at himself.

"Barnes! _Barnes!_"

His eyes flutter open and for a second he doesn't know you.

Then his breath comes out in a rush as he relaxes, sweaty and dazed.

"Nightmare," he explains, trying to sit up and only managing to lay his head between your neck and shoulder, holding on to you with his good hand. "Goddamn. How long was I out?"

"Minutes," you inform him quietly. "Maybe five or ten."

He says nothing in response, just breathes unsteadily against your shoulder.

"Is the pain worse?"

He nods and pulls you closer, hiding his face.

"We can try something fashioned after what they used on Steve in the hospital," you suggest. "Start at a half a dose and go from there."

"You're the doctor," he says, twisting his fingers in your shirt as he fights to get his breathing back under control.

"Okay," you shush, "Breathe with me. In," you inhale. "Out," you exhale slowly. "In…"

Eventually, he's able to synchronize with you.

"Sorry," he says, pulling back, shame-faced.

"You have nothing to apologize for," you tell him. "You needed help and you asked for it. That's a good thing. As soon as Steve gets back, I'll find out what he knows about the cocktail they worked up for him."

You sit with Barnes, reassuring him without becoming patronizing, until Steve returns.

"What happened?" he asks, stepping into the room, startled to find you both crouched on the floor.

"I think he's having night terrors," you tell Steve. "His arm is bothering him more, too. I need to see a list of the drugs they used on you so I can work out the math for him."

"Yeah, of course," Steve says, pulling out his own cell phone and thumbing through a few screens. "I kept the file just in case…"

He turns the phone around in his hand and passes it to you.

"Good lord, Rogers. This ought to kill a rhino…"

"Yeah, I know," he says. "It took them a while to figure out the right combination. Strong enough to keep me from feeling much, with a timed, sustained delivery system so my metabolism doesn't counteract it too fast."

"They keep any here?"

"Not sure if this place got a supply drop after things went south," he says. "It was a chaotic time."

"I'll check that supply cabinet. Basement?"

Steve nods and sits down on the corner of the bed, watching Barnes with an open look of concern on his face.

You waste no time and quickly make your way to the basement, locating the large industrial cabinet packed with medical supplies. You open a small lock box with the key still slotted and find neat rows of glass vials. Each row has a different label, and you note all are opioids (morphine, oxycodone, hydromorphone, meperidine, alfentanil, fentanyl, remifentanil, sufentanil, and etorphine). There are other boxes as well, and you correctly guess they have other kinds of drugs carefully stored and labeled inside.

You check Steve's phone again and start pulling out the vials of what you need. They'd manufactured a delivery system that is more StarkTech than traditionally medicinal, but luck seems to be with you and you locate an entire trunk _full_ of gadgets and scanners and who _knows_ what stamped with the company's iconic logo.

You find the item you're looking for, frowning briefly as you realize it'll need to be attached to Barnes' body in order to regulate the application of the cocktail. He won't like that.

There's a small table next to the cabinet that you spread out all of your supplies on. You set up the regulator, pleased to see that it's been designed to be used intuitively. You don't need to have a ton of training (or even very little training) to use it properly.

You do some quick math in your head and start portioning out the different painkillers, injecting each one into the delivery system when prompted. The machine warns you that your mixture has a 99.87% chance of killing an un-augmented human and then asks if you wish to proceed anyway. You select "yes" from the projected screen.

A flashing yellow light switches to green and the system is ready for use.

"Brilliant," you exhale, scooping it up and heading back upstairs.

* * *

"Find what you needed?" Steve asks as you re-enter the room.

"Surprisingly, yes," you tell him, holding up your payload.

"What's that?" Barnes asks, leaning against the end of the bed, still wrapped up in blankets and looking slightly disheveled.

"StarkTech," you tell him. "This is going to dose you at regular intervals after it analyzes your metabolism. It's made for people like you and Steve."

You crouch down next to him and motion for his arm.

"We're going to attach it right to the cannula, so you might feel a little discomfort as I get the port lined up and secure, but once the drugs start flowing…"

"Do it," he says, straightening his arm a bit more.

He holds still as you roll up his right sleeve, and you neither comment nor move to stop him when then does the same to the left. Perhaps it's an old habit from when he had a flesh-and-blood arm there, but it seems unnecessarily cruel to question him on it. You follow the command prompts from the device, hooking up the delivery system.

"Positive seal," the machine announces. "Please attach the system to the patient."

You pull a strip of paper off the back and press the device against the skin of Barnes' arm. It adheres easily. You pull against it slightly and are pleased that everything stays in place.

"Feel okay so far?" you ask, marveling at the little device. It's no bigger than your iPhone, and is slightly malleable so it conforms to the shape of Barnes' arm.

"Yeah, it's fine," he says. "Is it working?"

"You tell me," you answer.

"Analyzing patient," the machine announces.

"Christ…" Barnes swears, as the machine draws blood _out_ from the tube in his arm.

"Processing. Please standby."

"Tony made this?" Steve asks, raising a brow. "He never said… They must have used this on me in the hospital."

"Or something like it. This one is definitely made to be used by someone with no medical background. It's kind of idiot-proof. The menu includes an enormous database of commonly-used drugs and their proper doses. Then it does its own analysis and further tailors the payload to the patient. It's rather incredible, honestly."

"Yeah, you should try it some time," Barnes grinds out as the device vibrates again and then pushes the first round of drugs into his system.

"They do burn a bit at first, but…" You look up and watch as his pupils constrict to pinpoints. "The important thing is that they _work_."

He takes a deep breath and seems to melt against the bed.

"You ain't kidding," he slurs, allowing a tired smile to creep across his face.

Steve gets him back into a prone position on the floor. Once he's settled, you start to stand, intending to return to the bed to take watch while Steve finds an empty room to catch a few hours of sleep, but Barnes grabs your hand and holds you in place.

"Stay. Just until I'm out," he requests, eyes already closed.

You look up at Steve and wave him off as he gets ready to protest. Probably something along the lines of, _Let the lady get some rest, Buck-o._

"Okay," you cover Barnes' hand with your own, patting it reassuringly. "I'll stay as long as you want."

He nods and you wait for his breathing to slow, for the stress lines in his face to fade. His grip on your hand remains though, and you don't have the heart to disentangle it. You fold your knees against the floor and get as comfortable as possible.

"You should get some sleep," you tell Steve.

"Sorry," he says, motioning to where Barnes has captured your hand in his own. "I know you didn't sign up for this. Can I get you anything?"

"A pillow would be nice," you respond, catching the one he tosses down to you with your free hand and stuffing it under your head.

"Anything else?"

"I'm good, really. We can swap out in a few hours. I'll sleep through the afternoon, no worries."

"What if he wakes up and tries to fight you?" Steve says. "He packs one helluva punch."

You chuckle quietly.

"I think I can handle it. I'm actually more concerned that I'll hurt _him_ if he gets worked up. If I yell, you come running, yeah?"

"Or I can just sleep on the bed in here," he says, then flushes scarlet right up to the tips of his ears. "Um, if that's okay with you. I don't want to, that is, I um…"

"Lay down before you hurt yourself, Rogers," you laugh, muffling the noise against your shoulder. "I promise I won't take advantage of you while you get your beauty rest."

"Brat," he says, getting comfortable.

"Geriatric," you counter, pulling some of Barnes' blankets over your feet.

"Wake me if you get tired," he murmurs, and then quickly drops off.

You exhale slowly, squeeze Barnes' hand as he whimpers in his sleep, and hope your vigil manages to keep the worst of the nightmares away.


	6. Chapter 6

"Farewells can be shattering, but returns are surely worse. Solid flesh can never live up to the bright shadow cast by its absence."

-Margaret Atwood, _The Blind Assassin_

* * *

Barnes wakes you before Steve, shifting from side to side in his nest of blankets.

"What's wrong?" you ask, voice low to keep from startling him.

He freezes and remains silent, but you can hear how his breath rate increases slightly.

"If the pain is getting bad again—"

"N-no," he whispers back. "Forgot where I was for a minute. Need to… Need to piss."

"Want me to help you get down the hall?"

He repositions himself so he can look at you in the dim light of the room.

"Maybe."

You snort and get to your feet, holding out your hands for him to take with his good arm. Again, he hesitates, studying you in the near-dark, and flexes the metal hand of his prosthetic.

"C'mon, tough guy," you prod, "let's get you to the toilet."

He huffs and drags his right hand through his hair before finally allowing you to pull him up to his feet.

"Not an invalid," he grouses, getting his arm around your shoulder while he catches his balance.

"I know you're not," you assure him. "Humor me."

"Can't believe we didn't rouse _Sleeping Beauty_," he says, nodding in Steve's direction. The blonde man is stretched out on the bare mattress, hands folded on his chest, ankles crossed, and snoring lightly.

You just roll your eyes and start leading Barnes out of the bedroom. Why this house has a master bedroom not directly attached to the master bathroom is beyond you. Maybe the renovations—which had clearly been extensive—never got that far. Regardless, it's only a short trip down the hall.

"Can you manage on your own in there?" you ask, allowing Barnes to shuffle through first.

He scowls at you over his shoulder and shuts the door in your face.

"One step forward, ten steps back," you mutter to yourself, turning to lean against the adjacent wall.

Several long minutes go by and you have to constantly remind yourself that eavesdropping on someone while they urinate is not only a breach of privacy, but _gross_. Just as you're about to knock to make sure he hasn't done himself another injury, you hear the tap turn on.

You exhale slowly, relieved, and turn back to wait as he washes up.

Something crashes against the bathroom wall, and a choked off shout of pain has you spinning around to throw the door open. It doesn't budge.

"You _locked_ it?!" you shout. Your irritation is supplanted with growing alarm as another series of crashes resound from within, along with a hollow_'thunk!'_ that sounds all sorts of bad.

"Steve!" you call, looking down at the slightly open door of the bedroom. "I think we have a situation…"

Rogers comes scrambling out of the bedroom, still bleary-eyed with sleep, and glances from you to the door you're slamming your shoulder into in an attempt to force it open.

"What-?"

"I think he fell," you tell him, throwing yourself against the door again, feeling the solid wood give a little this time. "I should have gone in with him, propriety be damned."

"I got it," Steve says, taking your place in front of the door. He takes a step back and begins to raise his leg, preparing to kick it down when it's yanked open from the inside. Across the threshold, face slick with blood, stands The Winter Soldier.

Not James Barnes.

Not Bucky.

"Oh _fuck_," you manage to get out before the assassin is launching himself at Steve, landing a solid punch to the Captain's face.

"Buck, no!" Steve cries out, stumbling back against the railing that lines the opposite length of the hall. On the other side is a 15 foot drop to the foyer below.

The two men grapple; the Soldier hampered by his injured arm and the Captain trying not to cause any unnecessary injury to his addle-brained friend.

Barnes drops his bad shoulder and shoves up and forward, driving Steve back into the wall behind him. Plaster and crumbling sheetrock break away as Steve rolls to the side, putting some distance between himself and his attacker.

"Я завершу свою миссию!" Barnes screams, fury twisting his face into a terrifying mask that is almost unrecognizable.

He barrels forward, drawing his metal arm back to deliver another devastating blow.

"Bucky, stop, c'mon… You know me," Steve pleads, holding both hands out. "I don't want to fight you. You gotta _think_."

But _Bucky_ is far away from this place, from this time, and The Winter Soldier doesn't hesitate to slam his curled fist forward, straight into Steve's sternum.

_That_, you realize with a shock of fear, _might kill him_.

It's only been a matter of seconds since the entire fight erupted, but you feel as though you've idled on the sidelines for far too long.

"Barnes!" you shout, picking up what is likely a very expensive vase off a nearby console and hurling it at his back. He stumbles forward from the impact, then shakes his head like a dog, ridding himself of the shards of porcelain scattered in his hair.

"No…" Steve wheezes from the floor, rolling onto his side as blood seeps from the corners of his mouth. "Don't, he'll—"

"Come on!" you provoke, picking up another knick-knack off the table; a metal sculpture of some dead philosopher with serious heft to it.

"Вы," he seethes, turning to face you. "не моя миссия."

"Make an exception," you taunt. "Just this one time."

Anything to get him away from Steve, at least until he can get back on his feet. Another strike like that to his breastbone, and his entire chest cavity might cave in.

You fling the statue at Barnes, but he blocks it with his metal arm, the contact creating sparks. He stalks forward, every inch the predator. You hold your ground, keeping your posture relaxed, rolling your weight onto the balls of your feet. Once he steps into striking range, you'll—

"No, Buck!" Steve is back on his feet, throwing himself at his friend in an attempted tackle. Barnes sweeps him aside with a dismissiveness that borders on insulting, and sends Steve—broken ribs and all—flying down the staircase. The Captain tumbles into the banister on the right, snapping the thick wood and then dropping the last few feet onto the floor below. He lies still and you don't have time to check if he's still breathing before Barnes is on you.

There's no avoiding it now. You tried, _really tried_, not to take things to this level, but the Soldier holding you up by your throat in his titanium alloy-grip isn't going to stop on his own. Wherever Barnes went, he's buried too deep beneath HYDRA's conditioning to claw his way back to the surface unaided.

"I'm sorry," you sputter, fingers straining against the metal digits squeezing the life out of you. "Barnes, I'm _sorry_."

You change.

Suddenly, Barnes isn't holding a small-ish woman off the ground by the neck, and he stumbles back, confused. The bear—that is, _you_—remains on its hind legs, looking down at the creature still scrabbling at the fur and fat of its chest. You grunt; a shallow, breathy sound meant to scare him further away. A warning.

He hits you instead.

The blow is ringing and snaps your skull to the side, into the wall. You drop to all fours and whine, confused, the taste of your own blood in your mouth. Then the anger comes. Swift, like a cataract, it slams into you and you rear back on your hind legs once again, towering over your attacker. Slathering jaws open wide and this time… this time you _roar_. Before the two-legs can react, you backhand him, mostly against cheek and temple, and he crashes through the railing then drops out of sight.

You aren't done with him yet. Still incensed, still focused on the _threat_, you charge down the stairs, remarkably agile for a creature so huge. Your quarry is struggling to his feet, holding the side of his head where you'd hit him with a paw the size of a dinner plate.

"демон," he mutters, swaying. "демон!"

His bleating means nothing, and you rush forward, angry piggy eyes locked on your prey. He stumbles back, falls, stares up at you as you come crashing down, pinning him with 440 pounds of muscle, fat, and bone. He still tries to look up, tries to squirm away, struggling against your weight. His throat arches, veins standing out against pale, sweaty skin, and you feel your lips curl back to bare yellow teeth slick with saliva.

Then someone is calling your name, _your name_, and the bear's mind slides beneath your own, still urging you with instinct and adrenaline to eliminate the threat, the thing that hurt you.

Recoiling in horror from what you had come so close to doing, you release the bear entirely. You feel the discharge of matter, of energy, as the bear shrinks away, leaving you—in your own skin—crouched over Barnes, naked as the day you were born.

* * *

Barely a moment passes before you initiate another shift, growing a thick layer of dark, leathery scales over your body, their pattern taking on the general shape of a body-suit. It's a useful trick, one you would never admit to stealing from Darkholme (but you had, and it's a _great_ idea, damn her).

Barnes is frozen beneath you, exhausted and bloodied.

"что ты?" he gasps, cradling his metal arm against his chest. The navy fabric of his hoodie darkens at the shoulder, wet with welling fresh blood. "что ты? что ты? что ты?"

_What are you?_ He's asking, over and over, eyes staring out at nothing.

"Steve, I think he's going into shock," you announced, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand.

The other man is still lying on the floor, surrounded by splinters of broken wood from the railing he'd crashed into.

"Tell him to get in line," Rogers groans, rolling to one side.

"I'm serious," you hiss, pressing a hand against his shoulder, further sickened by the warm wetness of the fabric. "Fuck, Steve, I really hurt him."

Rogers manages to get himself onto his feet and staggers over.

"We have to get him restrained somehow," he says, and there's a liquid sucking quality to his voice that worries you deeply.

"I think you might have a punctured lung, Rogers," you tell him, moving over to rest the majority of your weight on Barnes' good arm, and motioning for Steve to do the same to its bionic counterpart. "And I thought you said there wasn't anything in this house that could hold him."

"Can you call your sister?" he asks, wheezing, blood dripping from his mouth and nose.

"Phone is upstairs. I'd have to leave you with him and I don't trust this sudden calm," you answer. "Besides, I got the impression that Ana was utterly tapped out by the time we called it a night. I'm not sure it'd be safe to send me in right now."

"Должны устранить цель," Barnes says, making a feeble attempt to shove you away with his good arm.

"There _is_ no target, Barnes. You failed your mission and HYDRA abandoned you. They'll kill you if they ever figure out where you are," you tell him. "You don't work for them anymore."

"Snap out of it, buddy," Steve adds, bracing hard against the bionic arm beneath him.

The Soldier snarls, redoubling his efforts to throw you both off of him.

"You're losing blood you can't spare," you warn him. "If we were really your enemies, would we be trying so hard to keep you alive?"

"Сука," he sneers. "Демон сука."

"Oh, he's _charming_," you mutter. The bloom of blood where his wound must have reopened seems slower, but he'll need a new row of stitches sooner rather than later.

"What's he saying?" Steve asks.

"Not worth repeating," you reply with a shake of your head. You return your attention to the assassin.

"I've walked in your mind," you tell him. "I know how dark it is and how scared you are. Of them, of yourself, of the things you've done and might do. But Barnes… I'll tell you again what I've told you before; _you are safe_. We are not going to hurt you. Please… if you can't remember that much, fine. But please stop fighting us."

"Моя миссия…" he trails off before swallowing several times. "I-I have to…"

"Back to English," Steve observes with a hint of approval, though he doesn't let up on Barnes' arm.

"C'mon, Sergeant, stop fighting your own brain."

"Noise," he hisses, mouth drawn back into a rictus grin. "All noise, no… no _meaning_."

"It'll come," you tell him, hoping you're following his broken thought process closely enough.

"Your name is James Buchanan Barnes. You were born on March 10, 1917, almost a year before me. Never let me forget it either. We grew up together, we—" Steve recites to him.

"Нет!" Barnes screams, but his voice breaks at the end and he shudders. "No—That's not—I can't be…"

You take a calculated risk and press one bloodied hand against his cheek.

"Let it come," you tell him, feeling the tension seep out of his body. "It's okay. Just let it come."

He sucks in a stuttering breath and closes his eyes.

"Buck?" Steve asks.

The tremor starts in his hands, then works up his arms. You push yourself off of him completely and gesture for Steve to do the same. Within seconds, Barnes is shaking hard from head-to-foot, neck and back bowing painfully.

"Jesus Christ, what's-?"

"He's having a seizure. He must have had one in the bathroom earlier; that was the commotion I heard, and then he hit his head on the sink when he fell. Should have anticipated this," you grind out, "We need to turn him on his side so he doesn't choke."

"Can't we hold him or—"

"No, this has to run its course. Help me move him," you answer, taking Bucky by the shoulders and starting to tip him towards you. "Barnes, you're going to be fine," you tell the convulsing man, grateful as Steve braces his friend on the other side. "It'll be over soon."

"Is this because of the mind wipes?" Steve asks, and you note that his voice sounds stronger than earlier. Does he really heal _that_ fast?

"Probably, but we have no way of knowing how much damage the cryo-freeze process did to his brain, or what that arm is doing to the rest of his body."

"The _arm _could be doing this?"

"Seizures have a variety of causes. I'd need to do an electroencephalography to rule out epilepsy—which I doubt this is—a CT scan, MRI, test his electrolytes, blood glucose, and calcium levels, conduct an electrocardiogram, maybe even a lumbar puncture. Full blood panel, toxicology screen…. He needs to be in a _hospital_, Steve. We have too many variables here and no safe way to start eliminating them."

Barnes' violent shaking eventually evens out into a subtle shiver. He's struggling to draw breath, so you carefully apply pressure to his jaw, forcing it open wider and check to make sure he isn't choking.

"Easy," you tell him as his eyes flutter open. "You're okay."

"W-where?" he manages before closing his eyes again.

"We're in Queens, in a safehouse, remember?"

"Who?"

You're about to remind him of your name when you realize—with a flush of shame—that you'd never actually given it to him. Or Rogers, for that matter, though he seems to know it already, probably through Fury.

So you introduce yourself properly, then provide an overview of how you'd met yesterday, filling in the gaps as his neurons start firing properly again.

"I remember," he says.

"Good," you encourage him. "You might feel some lingering confusion—"

"No shit," he scowls, glancing down and to his left to take in the new damage to his shoulder.

"But that will fade as you continue to come around."

"The hell happened?" he asks. "I remember getting into the bathroom and then everything was all bright lights and pain. Like someone was cracking my skull open with an ice pick."

"Well I don't know for sure, you wouldn't let me in with you, but I think you had an epileptic episode and then hit your head on the way down. Steve and I tried to get in to help you, but—"

"I attacked you," he breathes, closing his eyes once more.

"Yeah. No one died though, so don't feel _too _bad about it."

"I dunno," Steve mutters. "Felt like he killed me twice over."

Barnes huffs at both of you and tries to sit up. You press him back down, shaking your head 'no,' explaining that he needs to rest. There's a pretty good chance he'll have a follow-up seizure and there's no point having him up on his feet only to crash to the ground again.

"So are we going to talk about how you turned into a _bear_?" Steve asks, sitting back on his haunches.

"I assumed Fury explained what I could do before arranging our meeting," you tell him. "Look, we can discuss that later. Stay here with Barnes—"

"Really hate it when you two get to talkin' like I'm not here," Barnes growls.

"_Stay here with Barnes_," you repeat. "And I'll go fetch a suture kit to get this laceration closed up again. I need to check to make sure none of the sub-dermal or vascular sutures pulled. Be a bloody miracle if they didn't."

"Thanks for that, Rogers."

"You hit _me_, y'jerk," Steve returns as you get up and trot down the adjoining hall toward the kitchen. "She's the one who clobbered you."


	7. Chapter 7

"Farewells can be shattering, but returns are surely worse. Solid flesh can never live up to the bright shadow cast by its absence."

-Margaret Atwood, _The Blind Assassin_

* * *

You get Barnes and Rogers sorted with as little fuss as possible.

Somehow, the deeper sutures haven't been severed, so it doesn't take long to stitch Barnes back up. You cover the line of black surgical thread with sterile pads, and then tape them down to provide a little more protection from further irritation. The knuckles of his right hand are skinned raw, but he won't let you do more than clean them. The side of his face, where you'd hit him, is a mess of yellow and purple bruises.

"You hit like a freight train," he scowls as you wipe the blood from the split skin beneath his eye.

"Could say the same for you," you mutter, tossing the soiled gauze onto the floor. "Just be glad I didn't use _claws_. Pretty sure your brains would be splattered all over the walls."

He falls silent after that, but allows you to ice down the bruising after you make sure neither his orbital socket or the zygomatic bone are fractured.

Steve's nose needs to be readjusted; the crooked angle of the bridge straightened with an audible crackle. You give him an instant cold pack which he balances on his face to keep the swelling down. All you can do for his ribs is wrap him tightly with semi-flexible bandages and then tape the hell out of it.

You sit with the two men as they nurse their respective injuries, perched on the staircase next to Rogers.

After a long silence, Steve pulls the pack away and looks sidelong at you, squinting through double black-eyes.

"We gonna have that talk now?" he asks, motioning with one finger to the grey-black scales covering up your private bits.

"Mmm, not sure my colleagues would approve of my sharing that sort of information with an outsider," you consider. "But, I suppose you can ask whatever you're curious about. If I decline to answer, don't take it personally."

"Fair enough," he nods, taking a moment to sort out his own thoughts. "What are you, exactly? I mean, in terms of your abilities."

"The commonly accepted terminology is 'shapeshifter,' or 'metamorph.' I've heard others, but those are the two I prefer," you tell him. "Some shapeshifters can only mimic the forms of other people, while those like myself have a greater flexibility."

"How much greater?" he presses.

"You saw the bear," you sigh. "There are only two other known shapeshifters with the degree of control I have, and none with the range. I can move between complete forms, pick-and-choose specific components from entirely different species, or just make micro-adjustments to my own body."

"So when your eyes changed yesterday at the cafe-?"

"A micro-adjustment. Those are the kinds of changes that don't necessarily come from alternate source material. More like enhancing what I already have. Better hearing, better reflexes, that sort of thing."

"And the other kind?" Barnes croaks from the floor.

You quirk a brow, surprised that Barnes is even paying attention to the conversation. You honestly thought he had checked out again, he'd been so quiet.

"Those are trickier. They take a lot more concentration to maintain. For example, I can replicate the genetic sequences that build venom glands, fangs, and the neuro- and cytotoxins that spitting cobras use to blind or kill their prey. Usually amounts to a _very_ bad day for whoever is trying to bash my face in."

Both men fall quiet again, though Steve is staring at you with a mix of fear and awe that you find extremely disconcerting.

"You're serious?" he finally asks.

"Yes, Rogers, I'm serious. Whatever I need to maintain an edge or survive a situation," you answer with a tilt of your head. "You freaking out?"

"A little," he admits, smiling to take the sting out of the admission. "I thought I had a pretty good grasp of just how _strange_ the world is nowadays..."

You chuckle quietly, gathering up some of your medical supplies that lay scattered around you and packing them back into your kit.

"If—" Barnes starts, quieter than before. "If you get hurt…"

"I don't. Not really," you explain, pushing yourself away from the stairs and walking over to where he's stretched out on the floor. You crouch down, gently draping your hand over the one he has pressed to the icepack on his face and lifting it away so you can check the bruising underneath.

"Injuries don't alter your genetic code, and mine is _very_ good at maintaining the status quo. If I get hurt, I just reset the bits that were damaged. Everything grows back in seconds, sometimes fractions of seconds. I only feel pain long enough to recognize that I've been wounded. Then the receptors get switched off, maybe dissolved completely. I can do that by choice, but it's usually more of an unconscious reaction, like breathing or blinking."

"So if—" He glances over at his metal arm.

"If I lost an arm, I'd grow a new one. Whole limbs take a bit longer than most injuries. That burns a lot of energy, almost as much as a full shift. But it wouldn't kill me, or even hurt very much. Itches like the devil, though."

He sighs and closes his eyes.

"Must be nice."

"I suppose I don't appreciate it nearly enough. There are other side effects, of course, but I'd rather not get into them. Some good, some bad. We'll leave it at that," you finish, guiding his hand back down to press the cold pack against his face once more.

"So when you become another, uh, _animal_, is it always wild like that?" Steve asks, gently probing his nose with one finger before your withering glare causes him to stop.

"No, that was… That hasn't happened for a long time. Not since I was a kid, when my mutation first manifested."

"So what went wrong?"

"I have a theory, but no real way to test it. I think that whatever Ana did to get me inside Barnes' mind, it… it _severed_ things that are still being sorted out. When she pushed me back inside my body—and _fuck me_, but that sounds bizarre even to my ears—it felt like having your left foot crammed into your right shoe. May take a few days to sort myself out."

"So the bear…?"

"When I shapeshift into a different organism, I get all the instinctual baggage that's hardwired into their brains. So because I wasn't quite _fitting_into my own head yet, the bear was able to take control, to overwhelm my consciousness. When you yelled my name, it was like getting doused with ice water. Shocked me enough to regain command."

"Sounds like a solid theory," Steve agrees.

"Sounds like she had her soul ripped out of her body several times to—"

"Oh, don't be so melodramatic, Barnes," you chide. "I'm a grown woman. I make my own decisions and accept that those decisions may lead to consequences I don't particularly like."

He glares at you from one eye, the other hidden behind the cold pack.

"But—"

"_Stop_," you insist, pressing one hand against his chest as he struggles to sit up. "Whatever is owed, I'll gladly pay."

"_Why?_" he asks, almost choking on the word, unable to look at you directly.

"Because you didn't deserve the cage they built for you. I couldn't walk away from that, knowing where you were," you pause, lifting your hand from his chest. "Because it was the right thing to do."

"We've got your back, pal," Rogers adds, slowly getting to his feet. "We're in your corner."

The man on the floor closes his eyes as the tears come, slow and without fanfare. The ice pack slides to the floor as he covers his face with his hand, hiding.

* * *

Barnes' breakdown feels like a knife twisting in your guts and you look to Steve for help.

"I got this," he says, bracing against you as he settles down on the floor next to his friend. "Give us a minute?"

You nod, grateful for the time-out, and retreat to the adjacent living room. You fall heavily into an overstuffed wingback, drawing your bare legs up to your chest.

You've counseled _a lot_ of damaged kids over the years, first as one of the older students at the school, and now as a member of the staff. Hell, you'd _been_ one of the most brittle wards that Charles had taken under his wing.

You remember feeling like you weren't in control of your own emotions, how despite knowing you could handle just about anything the world threw at you, you wanted to curl up in a corner and _cry_, and wait for someone else to come and fix everything, to hold you and tell you lies about how it would all be okay in the end, that you were _worthy_ of the effort. That you had value.

Perhaps that's why you feel yourself becoming more and more invested with Barnes' situation. In less than 24 hours, you'd gone from reluctantly agreeing to assist Rogers to feeling like you have a personal stake in the complete recovery of his friend. If you could be salvaged, so can he.

Still, it's undeniable that Barnes is going to need more than a few pep talks and a fistful of Tylenol to pull himself together. You sigh and stretch, straining your joints almost to the point of pain.

Rogers peeks around the broad arch leading into the living room.

"He's pretty beat," he says. "I don't think we should risk the stairs. Maybe he can sleep in here?"

"Sure," you nod. "I'll bring the blankets down from the bedroom, along with a clean sweatshirt. His is soaked with blood."

"Not all of it is his," Steve adds, scrunching his face and sniffing.

"Stop with the faces, Rogers," you warn. "Even _you_ need more than a few hours to heal a dislocation. Probably."

He smiles again, but it's a sad, tired expression. "Can you help me get him up? I don't think my ribs can take all the weight."

You return with him to the foyer where Barnes has composed himself. His eyes are glassy and distant, and he still won't look at you, despite your best efforts to get him to engage in some light banter.

"Okay," you breathe. "On three."

You and Steve manage to haul the other man back up, and you end up taking most of the weight to spare Rogers any further injury. Everyone makes it into the livingroom, where Barnes immediately sits down in front of the fireplace, fingers digging into the soft Persian rug spread out across the hardwood.

You leave the two men to get comfortable, and retrieve all the blankets and a clean zip-up from upstairs. Barnes is compliant as you get him out of the bloodied clothing, though he does grab your hand and push it away when you linger too long against his bare skin.

"I'm sorry," you tell him, mouth twisting into a frown. He continues to stare at the stone hearth in front of him, completely unresponsive. "Barnes?"

With what appears to be great effort, his eyes drift to yours.

"Tell me you're okay. Or that you're not okay. But don't shut us out," you say, letting your own gaze flick to Steve, who has already taken up a post on the nearest couch.

"You—" he starts, and it's almost as if he has to fight to get each word out. "You're—gonna-get hurt-'cause-of me." He inhales sharply and wets his lips. "HYDRA. They'll-come."

You scoot closer to him, letting your shoulders touch.

"We can handle them," you assure him. "No one's going to take you away again."

"Don't—want—to—go," he says. You draw up the comforter around his arms.

"Listen to the lady, Buck," Steve says, looking rather wrung out himself.

You nod but Barnes seems unconvinced.

"You both need to rest," you remind them. "Give your bodies a chance to catch up."

"You haven't slept yet," Rogers objects. "You've got to be exhausted."

"I'm fine," you lie. "Really. I promise I'll take a really long nap later."

"You have a terrible poker face," Rogers gripes, but reclines on the couch regardless.

Once again, he drops off fast. You figure that's probably a byproduct of being a soldier. He'd have to be able to grab whatever sleep he could whenever and wherever possible. Or it could be a serum thing. Or just a _Steve_ thing. You don't know him well enough do suss out a definitive explanation.

Barnes shivers against you, so you slowly, tentatively get an arm across his back and murmur soothing words until he stops.

"You're—good—at—this," he forces out.

"I've had it done for me often enough," you explain, concerned that his speech faculties seem to be impaired by something. You hope it's not a sign of an impending seizure, but it very well may be.

"S'nice."

"I imagine you didn't get much in the way of positive human contact when you were with your handlers," you say, raising your hand to curl your fingers through his hair. "If I do something you don't like, just say so. I'll stop."

"Mmph," he grunts, shaking his head 'no.' He starts to lean back into your touch but pauses, his body going taut. You check him for telltale tremors, afraid he's about to have another fit, but he slowly relaxes again.

"Still waiting for the other shoe to drop?" you ask, recalling what he'd said to you the first time you'd entered one of his nightmares.

_Then you'll stop and the pain will come_.

He cringes.

"They—liked—to—trick me," he says, starting to shiver again. "When—I'd—start—remembering—things."

"Is there _anything_ I can do to make this easier for you?" you ask, hating yourself for the way your voice wavers. Get a grip.

"Just—stay." He takes a deep breath and glances at you from the corners of his eyes. "Keep—touching."

"I can do that," you tell him, scritching along the base of his skull. His eyes slowly shut and you wonder if you've actually gained a tiny bit of his trust.

* * *

Barnes falls asleep against you, head tilted down on your shoulder. It doesn't look like a terribly comfortable position, but he's been out for a few hours now with no outward signs of night terrors or overwhelming pain. You decide to leave him as he is, switching off the synapses in your lower back as they start to complain.

Steve sits up, rubbing the sleep from his eyes—which are remarkably no longer black and blue, but a sort of sickly yellow color.

"That was barely a catnap, Rogers," you whisper to him.

"Says the woman who hasn't shut her eyes except to blink," he counters. "How is he?"

"Out cold," you answer, still running your fingers through Barnes' hair. "We need to talk about what happens next."

Rogers' face falls and he hunches over on the edge of the couch. _That_, you expect, is something left over from when he was scrawny and sick, before he volunteered to be the U.S. Army's lab rat.

"I know," he says. "I made some calls last night when I went for that walk. Natasha and Wilson are just waiting for me to tell them when, and they'll be on their way here. Nat has experience with de-programming and Sam is a counselor at the V.A. He's actually kind of pissed that I didn't call him sooner."

"Might have been a good idea," you huff. "I feel like all we've done here is put a Band-Aid on a broken knee. To be honest, at this point, anything else I do for him will border on professional negligence. He needs to be in a _hospital_, Steve."

He looks away, brow furrowed and his right leg bouncing with anxiety.

"I can't let them put him back in a cell," he finally says.

"Why would you think that's—No legitimate doctor or psychologist is going to suggest_ that_, Rogers."

"There's no way we can keep his identity—_both_ identities—a secret forever. Eventually, some pretty big players are going to come looking for him. The government, S.H.I.E.L.D., _HYDRA_…"

"Fuck 'em," you answer with a shrug. "I assume one of the calls you made was to Stark?"

He nods.

"Well that's half the battle won right there," you contend. "Besides, I'm pretty sure if all the information in his file is presented to the right people, in the right framework, there's no _way_ they could justify throwing him in jail, or prosecuting him. Fury knows what you're up to, so I don't think S.H.I.E.L.D.'s going to come around looking for trouble."

"Technically, he's dead. Whoever is running what's left, it's not him."

"I'd bet money I _don't_ have that he'd be able to pick up the phone and call off the hounds, and that's _if_ they bother giving chase. They're not exactly seen as pillars of the community anymore, either. Barnes was used by HYDRA because he had no choice. S.H.I.E.L.D. was used by HYDRA because they were either lazy or stupid," you argue.

"And HYDRA itself?" he asks, staring at the floor.

"I don't speak for all of the X-Men," you tell him, and his head snaps up at the first use of the team's name. "But if HYDRA makes a move, I'll consider it open season. You _are_ actively hunting them down, right?"

"Me, Natasha, and Sam, mostly. Fury's been providing intel, and I get the feeling he's not just watching from the shadows. The man has blood on his hands, and he's _pissed_ about Pierce, about what was done to S.H.I.E.L.D."

"Good. I'm not looking to add my name to your roster; already on one too many of those, but if you think I can help, drop me a line and I'll be there," you tell him, eyes narrowing to slits.

"I gotta ask," he says after a long pause. "Why _are_ you committing to this? Don't get me wrong, I appreciate it more than I can express, but—"

"This," you snap, pointing to where Barnes' head is tucked against your shoulder. "This is _wrong_. It's evil and despicable and they'll do it to someone else if they haven't already."

You take a deep breath, forcing yourself to calm down.

"I saw what was in his mind, Steve. I _felt_ it. Anyone capable of doing that to another human being—for seven decades, no less—needs to be_exterminated_. The organization that harbors them? Wiped off the face of the earth. No quarter. No amnesty. No _exceptions_."

"You're… afraid of them?" he asks, though it feels more like an observation than a true question.

"I'm afraid of what a group like HYDRA might do if they ever capture someone like _me_. You… You have no idea what some of us can do. Just to give you a taste, one of my mentors can punch holes through mountains with energy beams _fired_ _from him eyes_."

Rogers' stares at you, jaw working spastically.

"That's—"

"I know," you cut him off, nodding. "So yes, HYDRA scares the shit out of me. All they'd have to do is get one high-powered mutant to do their bidding and _a lot _of people will suffer. Including us. Can you imagine the backlash? There would be witch-hunts, political, legal, and _literal. _Complete with hangings and burnings-at-the-stake."

He blows out his cheeks and drops back onto the couch with a groan.

"But even if none of that were a real possibility," you say, voice dropping back to a whisper as you return your gaze to Barnes. "They need to pay for what they did to him. I intend to be there when they do."

Rogers doesn't say anything else for a long time and you decide to leave him to his thoughts.

You turn your own words over in your head, examining your motivations regarding Barnes and HYDRA, your team and their stubborn refusal to get involved in something you can clearly see is a disaster waiting to happen.

Mostly, though, you come to realize that this is less about the "big picture" and more about what was done to the man sleeping against your shoulder.

He'd been one of the good guys, someone who had witnessed the worst humanity had to offer and hadn't looked away, hadn't left the task to someone else. He'd followed his friend into darkness, protected him, and when his luck finally ran out, someone saw his tragedy as an _opportunity_. Everything he had been, and done, and might have accomplished was burned away, cut out and disposed of, and _no one had ever come for him_.

_That's it_, you realize with a sickening lurch of your stomach.

Barnes had been left behind, and while you place no blame on Steve or the other Commandos, the truth remains: _No one had ever come. _

There was no rescue mission. No detail sent to retrieve the body and send it home to his grieving family. Just a letter and a folded flag, an empty coffin lowered into the ground, and a 21-gun salute.

"I know," you tell him, smoothing his hair down against the back of his head. What had been done to you, and what you had been forced to do in turn, was nothing compared to what had happened to James Buchanan Barnes, but you _get it_, and that's why this matters so much to you.

Someone _had_ come for you. You hadn't been left behind, or forgotten.

You smile at the memory of Dr. MacTaggert showing up at your front door in Edmonton, glasses wobbling on the end of her nose. She'd been almost impossible to understand those first few days traveling to Muir Island; her Scottish brogue causing you no end of frustration and confusion. Ana had taken to her immediately, of course, but that was Ana for you. Undeniably loveable and loving in return.

It's time to finally pay that kindness—and all the myriad kindnesses that had followed—forward.

You smile, aware that Rogers is watching you with a mixture of concern and sympathy. You draw Barnes a little closer against you, breath ruffling his hair.

No one had come for him back then.

But you'll be goddamned if you abandon him now.


	8. Chapter 8

"Farewells can be shattering, but returns are surely worse. Solid flesh can never live up to the bright shadow cast by its absence."

-Margaret Atwood, _The Blind Assassin_

* * *

Several hours later, Steve politely excuses himself to make another series of phone calls. When you ask if you should expect company, he only manages a slight nod of his head before heading further into the house.

As soon as he's out of earshot, Barnes takes a deep breath and sits up. You'd known he'd been awake for a while now, but figured he had his reasons for keeping up the charade.

"He gonna bring me in?" he asks, readjusting his position until he's about as far from you as possible without being on the other side of the room. Or out of it completely. You don't question the action or take it personally. He'd wanted comfort earlier and now he wants space. Both are understandable.

"Not against your will," you answer, canting your head slightly to the side. "But if you _do_ decide to go, you'll have access to the best care possible."

"You were doing fine," he sulks. "I don't need a padded cell and straightjacket. Just keep me functional—"

"You talk about yourself like you're a damn _machine_ sometimes, Barnes. I really wish you wouldn't," you reprimand, leaning against the cool stone of the fireplace. "Functional is not good enough."

"That's not what I meant," he argues. "It's just—I'm not… I can get by. If my guts aren't spilling out and I know I'm _me,_ then that's okay. It's enough."

You snort and flex your bare toes, wondering just how far and how hard you can push without knocking him over the edge.

"You're afraid that you're going to disappoint them," you say, watching him carefully. "Steve especially. They're going to come up with this grand plan for _fixing_ you and then you'll end up being beyond repair. Is that it?"

"Fuck you," he snaps, forcing himself onto his knees and then, with a bit of a struggle, to his feet. "Like you fuckin' know me." His collection of blankets pool around his feet and he kicks them aside to step out of their embrace.

"Oh, I have no illusions about how little I actually know you," you reply as calmly as possible. "But you wouldn't be the first to feel that fear and be cowed by it. I've been there; I know."

"No offense, but I don't see how a teacher from some rich man's school has any goddamn idea what this," he gestures to himself, "is like."

"Everyone has a past, Barnes. Everyone has a _before_."

"Thanks, Confucius," he snarls. "But if we're measuring dicks here, I'm pretty sure I win."

"Fair enough," you chuckle. "What I'm trying to get at is that you don't need to be afraid of letting any of them down. This isn't about them. It's about you. What do _you_ want?"

His face softens as your question catches him off-guard.

"I—I don't know," he finally admits. "I wasn't allowed to—" He looks away and wanders toward a row of bookcases that line the wall opposite the fireplace. He stands there, running his flesh hand across the spines of the books neatly arranged on the shelves.

"Stop looking at this like it's a singular problem you need to solve in one go," you admonish. "When a task is this huge, you have to break it down into manageable portions; otherwise you'll be overwhelmed and never get anywhere."

"So what's the first step?" he asks, glancing at you over his shoulder.

"That's up to you," you tell him. "But when I was the one being asked that question, the first step was deciding what I wanted. Deciding _who_ I wanted to be. How I wanted the world to perceive me."

"What'd you decide?"

"That's a bit personal, Barnes," you sniff. "Suffice to say, I wanted to be more than what I was. I wanted to matter. I wanted Ana to be proud that I was her sister."

He turns back to the bookcase, lost in his own thoughts.

"You don't have to go," you remind him. "You're not a prisoner."

"What do you think I should do?" he asks, still facing away from you.

"I think you'd be a flaming idiot to pass up the opportunity," you tell him. "I think this is your best shot at reclaiming as much of yourself as possible."

"But what if it _doesn't_ _work?_" he continues. "What if this is as good as it gets?"

"Then this is where you lay the foundation for whomever you want to be going forward," you answer. "Despite being a grouchy shit an awful lot of the time, you're a pretty decent guy, Barnes. Scars and scary metal arm included."

He laughs, actually_ laughs_, and turns around to face you fully.

"I can see why he trusted you so easily," he says, scratching his chin.

"Who?"

"Steve." He moves over to one of the long couches and eases himself down, wincing slightly as sore muscles pull in the process. "You probably remind him of her, even if he doesn't realize it."

"For fuck's sake, enough with the cryptic anecdotes from _ye olden days_."

"Peggy," he smirks. "You remind him of Peggy."

* * *

The rest of the morning passes without incident. You change into a plain t-shirt and drawstring pants found in one of the other bedrooms, leaving Barnes to wander from room to room as he debates his future with himself. You keep an ear out for anything that sounds out-of-sorts while allowing him some room to breathe. You're not his babysitter, after all.

Eventually, you end up back in the living room, deciding to grab a book and curl up on one of the couches. For a time, you lose yourself in _Pride and Prejudice;_ the exploits of the Bennet girls a welcome distraction from the absolute silence laying heavy over the house like a shroud.

A knock on the door frame draws your attention away from Austen's narrative, and you look up to see Steve filling the passageway.

"God, you're enormous," you remark, making him blush scarlet.

"Yeah, it still startles me sometimes, too," he laughs. "I was pretty small most of my life."

You close the book and lay it down in your lap. "Everything okay?"

"Sam and Natasha are on their way," he says. "Just to talk, for now, but we want him to come in. To the Tower, that is."

"He figured as much," you tell him. "He was up and asking questions a few minutes after you ducked out."

Rogers plants both his hands on top of his head, looking up at the ceiling.

"How'd he take it?"

"I think he's amenable to the idea," you supply. "But I get the feeling he's going to be difficult about it. He wants help, but he doesn't want to seem like he _needs_ it, if that makes sense."

Steve nods and drops his hands back to his sides.

"What's the plan once you get him there?" you ask.

"Dr. Banner wants to have him checked out. Full medical work-up, a psych evaluation, anything else they can think of. Tony's practically giddy about inspecting the arm, though I told him that'll only happen if and when Buck is ready. He'll have a small apartment to himself on a secure floor, and I'll be moving into an adjoining one. They asked if you could write up a report of your observations over the last couple of days…"

"Of course," you nod. "I think I saw a laptop in the study on the second floor. I can put something together that will at least give them a good starting point. Maybe make a few recommendations."

"Thanks," he says. "For all of this. Who knows how long it would have taken to find him without your help. Without Ana's help. Make sure she knows how much I appreciate it."

"Send her a text message," you tell him with a sly smirk. "She'll be the happiest girl in a 100 mile radius for _months_."

You take Steve's cell phone and program Ana's number in it.

"Am I correct in assuming Stark has some kind of medical facility in his midtown fortress?" you ask.

"State-of-the-art," Steve answers, taking his cell back and tucking it in his pants pocket. "Or so he says. He's got a team of doctors and specialists on call that he swears by."

"Which means he's paid them a monstrous amount of money to ensure their discretion," you observe.

"We'll need it," he adds. "I don't want anyone sticking a camera or microphone in Bucky's face until _he's_ ready, and only once we've got all our ducks lined up in regards to his legal status."

"It is nice having friends in high places. Especially when they're rich," you comment, throwing in a wink.

"You don't have to go straight back to Westchester," he blurts out, running his fingers through his hair. "I know Bucky would—"

"I'm not an Avenger, Steve," you interrupt, holding one hand up between you like a brick wall. "Or a licensed doctor, or a psychologist, or any of the things he needs right now. Besides, I have responsibilities back home. My kids expect me to be standing at the front of the classroom tomorrow morning to review the critical differences between Linnaean taxonomy and Hennig's cladistics."

"So you teach… Science?"

"Evolutionary Biology," you laugh. "And First Aid. That one's an elective."

"Right," he chuckles. "Anyway, I'll keep you posted on his progress. If there's an emergency…"

"I already told you, just call me. Westchester isn't Hong Kong. I can be downtown in under an hour. And it doesn't have to be an emergency, Rogers. The rest of my ragtag family might not be ready to join the drum circle and make nice, but I'm free to make my own choices about who I socialize with."

"Deal," he says, smiling broadly and holding out his hand to shake on it.

* * *

Not long after, Barnes returns to the living room, looking worn-out as ever. He pushes one of the wingback chairs into the corner and plants himself in it.

"When're we doing this?" he finally asks, crossing his arms over his chest.

"Buck, we don't have to do anything you're not onboard with. We can hole up here as long as you want. I'll stay and—"

"Don't be an idiot," Barnes interrupts with a shake of his head. "I'm too dangerous to leave in a residential neighborhood with only you holding the leash. We saw that earlier. If I had gotten out, I could have killed somebody."

"I think Steve's just trying to provide some alternative options," you offer, sitting on the armrest of one of the long sofas. "You have those now;_options_. Choices."

"Again, that's stupid. My head's a train wreck; you can't trust me to make those kinds of decisions," he argues, turning to look at Steve dead-on. "One day, if I'm something approaching normal, you can give me options. Right now, I need orders."

You blink, slowly turning your head towards Steve. You'd said something similar to him yesterday at the café, and at the time it had seemed wise. But hearing Barnes say it about himself feels wrong somehow, like you're about to divest him of what little freedom he's finally reclaimed.

"Are you sure?" Steve asks quietly, unable to look his friend in the eye.

"Fuck no, Rogers, I'm not sure any of this is even real."

"Buck…"

"Don't do that," he sighs, leaning back in the chair, almost boneless. "I'm trying to be honest with you so you understand why you have to do this for me. Stow the puppy-dog eyes and the Catholic guilt, and do what has to be done."

"It's not always gonna be like this," Steve promises. "However long it takes, it's gonna get better."

"For what it's worth, I think it's a good plan," you tell them both. "You'll be safe, they'll be able to sort out exactly what's going on and get to work."

"I take it you're not coming," Barnes scowls, staring at his metal arm.

"Not today, no. You're going to be quite busy for the next few weeks, I expect. Honestly, I'd only be in the way."

"I don't know any of them," he sneers, flicking his eyes to your face.

"You don't know me either," you point out. "Not any more than a person can know another with little more than 24 hours acquaintance. Besides, Steve will be with you every step of the way."

He snorts and looks away again, clearly agitated.

"Don't commit yourself to failure before you've even started," you caution. "Look how far you've come in a day."

"Because _you_ were here to pull me out of my own head," he snaps. "Which of the Avengers can do that if I—if I _go away_ again?"

"None of them," you concede. "But all they have to do is call me, Barnes. Though, since we're on the subject, I want to warn you both that I don't intend to bring my sister back into this unless it's an absolute emergency. I don't want her thought of as a magic pill."

"I don't—" Barnes starts, looking legitimately offended. "I can see why you'd be worried about that, but I don't think of her, or _you_, that way. It's just…"

"I know," you soothe. "That came out harsher than I intended; I'm sorry. I've been told I can be overly protective of her on occasion, but she's all I've got."

"We understand," Steve says with a slight incline of his head. "Ana is left out of this unless it's a life-or-death situation."

Barnes leans forward over his knees and scrubs his face with both hands.

"There's something else," he says, head cradled in his palms. "I've been trying to tell you all day, but I think they put something in my head to keep me from sayin' it."

You feel one of your eyebrows creeping up your forehead.

"HYDRA programming?" you ask, glancing at Steve. He's gone as tense as a bowstring, practically vibrating where he stands.

Barnes nods.

"I think I can write it down, but I need you both to be ready in case I freak out or something."

"Maybe we should wait for Natasha and Sam," Steve suggests, slowly crossing the room to stand within arm's reach of his friend.

"No," Barnes insists. "No, I gotta do this now before it slips away again. I don't always remember."

Without another word, you trot back to the kitchen and grab a scratch pad and a pen from the junk drawer (or you assume it's the junk drawer, all kitchens have those, right?). You return to the living room and hand both to Barnes. His face has gone a sickly greenish color, like he's on the verge of throwing up.

"Okay," he breathes, and starts writing.

* * *

Barnes manages to get most of his message down on paper before scrambling out of the chair to hurl the remains of last night's dinner onto the floor. You motion for Steve to stay where he is, waiting as the retching stops.

"Still with us?" you ask.

Barnes nods and slowly sits up, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

"Cleaning lady's gonna be pissed," he slurs.

"Christ, Barnes, you've got a nosebleed," you swear, pushing away from the couch and grabbing him by the armpits to haul him up to his feet.

"Head hurts again," he admits, reaching for Steve as the other man comes over and helps get him back into his chair.

"Tilt your chin forward a bit," you instruct, using the hem of his shirt to wipe away the worst of it. "Steve, can you read what he wrote down?"

Rogers grabs the notepad where Barnes had dropped it.

"There's a shut down system wired into the arm," he says, voice gone hard. "They can activate it remotely. It'll kill him and probably anyone standing nearby."

"Then why haven't they? He's been out-of-pocket for months—"

"S.H.I.E.L.D.'s been keeping them busy," Steve says. "At least that's what Fury claimed when I spoke to him."

"Want me back," Barnes gasps, fresh blood dripping onto the floor between his feet. "Insight failed. M'still useful."

"I think we might need to move up our timetable on when Stark can get to looking at his arm," you worry, chewing at your bottom lip. "We can't assume they'll wait forever. In fact, they might be spurred to action once they find out we have him."

"Why do you say that?" Steve asks, tossing the notepad onto the couch with unrestrained disgust.

"Because once they accept that he's not ever going to be on _their_ team again, they'll remove him from the board completely."

* * *

Barnes tugs you down to sit on the armrest of his chair and leans his head against your shoulder. Why he finds this particular position so comforting when he's in distress is beyond you, but it seems to consistently quiet him down so you let your curiosity go for the time being.

When the doorbell rings, he practically hits the ceiling, and it takes another 10 minutes of cajoling and reassurances to convince him that everything is okay.

"It's just Nat and Sam," Steve says, coming back from the front door. "They're going to wait outside until you say otherwise."

Barnes nods and stares out into the foyer, wary and tense.

"These are good people," you tell him.

"You've never met them," he snaps, then looks up at Steve. "Have I?"

"That's… complicated," Rogers admits, rubbing his forehead. "And not important right now. Whatever happened, they're here to help."

Barnes looks skeptical but eventually allows Steve to bring them in.

You've seen Romanoff on T.V. before, when she'd sat in front of that insipid Congressional panel and told some of the nation's most powerful politicians to go fuck themselves. You're a big fan.

"Hello," the red-headed woman says, an endearing half-smile balanced on her lips. "I'm Natasha, and this is Sam," she thumbs behind her at the (very handsome) black man sauntering in. He grins, a beguiling expression with that gap in his teeth, but hangs back in the center of the room.

"Hey," he says with a casual wave. "Sam Wilson. Been looking for you for a while now, Sergeant Barnes. You're a hard man to find."

Bucky says nothing, but you notice the sweat beading on his brow and the way his eyes can't seem to stick on one thing or person for longer than a few seconds.

"Deep breath," you murmur, head tilted toward his ear. "You look like you're about to have a panic attack, Sergeant. Breathe in…"

He does, audibly.

"Hold it. Hold it. Now breathe out, slowly…"

You repeat the instructions until he looks like he has more control of himself. You pat him gently on the shoulder, and look back at the others. You introduce yourself (first name only, because Barnes is right, you _don't_ know these people), and then answer a few questions from Natasha.

"So you're a doctor, sort of," she says, squinting slightly.

"Close enough for government work," you throw back. "Fury brought Rogers to a previously arranged meeting to discuss what might be done to aid in the search for Barnes."

"What did Fury want with you?" she asks.

"That's classified," you answer with a smirk of your own. "I refused his proposal. If he chooses not to share the details of it with you, it isn't my place to do so."

She nods, pleased with your answer.

"What happened out there?" she asks, pointing back over her shoulder to the pile of splinted railing, drywall, and bloodied rags left at the bottom of the staircase. "You guys throw a party or something?"

"Or something," you answer. "You can ask Steve for the details later."

She opens her mouth to press for more information, but Wilson (thankfully) cuts her off.

"Well now that we're done growling at each other and marking our territory," he drawls, "Ya'll think I can grab a few minutes with Sergeant Barnes here? I'd like to ask him some questions and they're not the kind for group therapy."

Barnes grabs your arm hard enough to hurt.

"Stay."

You look to Wilson for approval; if he really wants a one-on-one chat with Barnes, you can disentangle yourself easily enough.

"Okay, how about we _ask_ if the lady minds staying?" Wilson suggests, still smiling.

Barnes looks sidelong at you and loosens his iron grip. "Could you?" he asks.

"Of course," you agree, though you slide your arm back so that his hand is no longer circling your forearm, but instead clutches at your own fingers.

Steve and Natasha leave the room, off to discuss logistics in some other part of the house.

"So how you feelin' about moving into the Tower?" Wilson asks, and it's not the line of questioning you were expecting. His tone is friendly, almost casual, and he crouches down a few feet from Bucky, resting his arms on his knees. He looks about as intimidating as a schoolboy, and you know the effect isn't lost on Barnes.

"Better than slumming it in the old neighborhood," Barnes answers. "I'm more concerned about security than anything else."

"No one's getting inside Tony Stark's personal residence and place of business uninvited," Wilson assures him. "No one's going to be able to get in and make a grab for you."

"Jesus, you're as bad as Steve," Barnes sighs. "I don't give a shit about HYDRA getting _in_. I'm worried about me getting _out_. Or getting switched on, laying waste to the place, whatever. You clowns need to have some serious security programs in place in case I need to be taken out."

"Woah, woah," Sam says, holding his hands out, that genial smile fading. "No one's taking anyone out. If you lose it, we'll be able to handle it. You do know one of your new roommates is The Hulk, right?"

"So, what, you'll have him pound on me until I stop wrecking the place?" Barnes asks, and there's no hint of sarcasm in his voice. He's actually asking if that's the plan.

"No, man, no. Christ, but they did do a number on you, didn't they? What I'm saying is that if we can all live and work with The Hulk in residence, I'm pretty sure we can handle a brainwashed ex-assassin with a cybernetic arm."

Barnes blinks owlishly at Wilson, then leans forward, narrowing his eyes.

"Where do I know you from?" he asks.

Sam laughs quietly, looking down at the floor before angling his head back up.

"I, uh, kind of kicked you in the back of the head really hard a few months ago," he explains, rubbing the base of his skull as if experiencing sympathy pains.

Without missing a beat, Barnes asks, "Did I at least pay you back for such a dirty shot?"

"You ripped my Exo-7 Falcon rig in half and threw me off a helicarrier. I'd say we're pretty much even."

"And the woman, Natasha, did I fight her too?" he asks, squeezing your fingers to help him stay grounded as he struggles to place the fragmented memories.

"Yeah, she gave you a run for your money. That woman knows how to _fight_, y'know? You shot her in the shoulder, but she got away."

"Why the_ fuck_ would either of you want to help me?" he asks, once again increasing the pressure on your hand. You brush your thumb over his knuckles and he relaxes slightly, eyes darting to yours in silent apology.

"I don't hold grudges," Wilson answers with a shrug. "My mom used to say that shit is like cancer; it just festers and makes you sick. As far as Natasha is concerned? I don't think she's the vindictive type either, unless she thinks it's tactically advantageous. Besides, Steve's pretty much her only real friend. If helping you makes him happy, she's onboard. You can trust her."

"I don't," Barnes snaps. "And I don't trust you, either."

Wilson stands up slowly, once again holding out his hands to show he's not a threat.

"That might come with time, or it might not. Thankfully, I'm not here to be your friend, Sergeant. You served, and so did I; that makes us _brothers_. Whatever they did to you, whatever fucked up shit they put in your head, I'm gonna help you get it out," he says. "If you'll let me."

"That's all you want?" Barnes asks. "To _help?_"

"It's a character flaw, I know," Wilson deadpans, that brilliant smile creeping back on his face. "But yeah, I do. I mean, it'd be pretty great if I could count Captain America _and_ Bucky Barnes both as friends—I'd never have to beg for a date again—but I'll be content with a seat at the table, if that's all you'll ever allow."

"You people are all insane," Barnes sighs, slouching over and turning his head to look at you. "What do you think?"

"I think you're going to need all the allies you can get. Steve tells me that Mr. Wilson here works with veterans suffering from PTSD and other combat-related issues as his chosen profession."

"Correct," Wilson confirms. "It's a hell of an honor, too. Not many people can say that about their jobs."

Barnes just snorts, never turning his attention from you.

"You have to give this a chance," you tell him, squeezing his fingers. "Even if you think it's stupid or doomed to fail. Give it a chance. That's all we're asking for; let us try to prove you wrong."

He closes his eyes and ducks his head.

"All right," he finally says. "If that's what you think, then that's what I'll do."

* * *

"I need to say a few things before we part ways," you tell Barnes as Wilson removes himself to update Steve and Natasha about the decision that's been reached.

"I don't like most of what's been said today," he answers, still hanging his head. "But I'm still here, still listening. Go ahead."

"This is going to be messy," you say, turning slightly on the armrest to face him a bit more. "And there are going to be more bad days than good for a while. You _have_ to want this, and be willing to fight for it."

He looks away.

You reach forward and hold his chin in your hand, coaxing him back until you can see his eyes.

"Promise me you'll try. You waited 70 years; don't give up on yourself now that the rescue's finally come."

He looks momentarily startled, and covers your hand with his own before drawing it back down to the armrest. For a second, you're worried he's going to tell you off, but when he finally speaks, it kindles something in your gut that feels surprisingly like hope.

"Okay," he says, "I promise."

* * *

You drop Barnes off in the kitchen and fix him another bowl of soup (need to remember to mention his shot digestive system in your report). He must be ravenous, because he's already done with it before you've had a chance to rinse the pot you'd warmed the broth up in.

"You need to get into the habit of telling us when you're hungry," you tell him, cracking another can of Campbell's soup open and switching the stove back on.

"Never had to when—" he hesitates, turning his spoon over in his hand. "—when I was with them. They fed me when it was convenient."

You hand him another round of vitamins and supplements before passing him the second serving of soup.

"That'll get easier with time, I imagine," you tell him, once again rinsing the pot and replacing it on the overhead rack. "I have to go upstairs and type some things up for the medical staff at the Tower. Do you want to read it before I hand it off to them?"

"Why would I want to do that?" he asks, eagerly spooning soup into his mouth.

"Because they're _your _medical records."

"Nah," he says with a shake of his head. "Just don't sugar-coat anything. They need to know exactly what they're in for."

You decide not to press the issue. He really _should_ know what the report says before allowing anyone else access to it, but he also wouldn't be the first person who didn't care to know everything that was wrong with them. Regardless, he's absolved you of any ethical concerns by giving you permission to pass the information on.

"I expect your new housemates will come by in a bit to get you ready to go," you tell him, folding a dishtowel over the edge of the sink. "Will you be all right on your own until they do?"

"Yeah," he says, curling his metal fingers in and pulling his metal arm off the table to rest it on his lap, out of sight. "Gonna see you before I go?"

"This won't take long," you tell him, "I type fast."

* * *

You're just printing the last page of the report when Steve calls up the stairs for you. You stack the sheets together and bang a staple in the corner to keep them from being shuffled out of order. The most pertinent information is bulleted on the top page, with a more detailed account afterward.

You kept the mutant-oriented stuff out, though you're sure Steve will have to let some of it slip when the others invariably get to asking for details. You just hope he chooses what to share wisely, keeping in mind everything you've said about safety, and privacy, and _witch-hunts_.

The entire crew—Steve, Natasha, Sam, and Barnes, are waiting in the foyer. Bucky has both hands buried in the front pouch of his zip-up, with the hood drawn as far over his head as possible. He's hunching and shaking slightly.

"We've got a secure vehicle outside," Natasha informs you. "Sam and Steve will ride with Barnes and the driver to the Tower. I've got to drop the Buick back off at the lot Steve took it from."

"You _stole_ a car?" you ask Rogers, stunned.

"It was a S.H.I.E.L.D. lot," he says with a shrug. "Figured they wouldn't mind."

"They would," Natasha admonishes, twirling the keys around her finger. "But they won't say anything if I'm the one returning it."

"But they'd say something to him?" you ask with a short bark of laughter, pointing at Steve.

"No," she answers. "Probably not. The thing is, people _love_ Steve. They're afraid of me. A fawning gate attendant will take longer to deal with than one ready to wet himself."

"Oh wow, I want to be you when I grow up," you chuckle. "So this is _adieu_ then? At least for now?"

"Seems like," Wilson nods, holding out his hand. You slide yours into his palm, ready to shake, but he twists your hand over—gently—and then brushes his lips against your knuckles. "_La séparation est un si doux chagrin_."

You feel your cheeks heat up to about the temperature of the sun. He smirks, winks, and releases you with an exaggerated flourish.

"Does that actually work?" you ask, playfully shoving his shoulder.

"You tell me," he teases back, feigning injury. Steve clears his throat and both Natasha and Sam take that as their cue to wait outside once more.

"I'll let you know how things go tonight," Rogers says, holding up his hand with thumb and pinky extended to the side of his face. "That okay?"

"Yeah, of course. And if _you_ want to talk," you say, craning your neck in Barnes' direction, "you can call as well. I can't guarantee I'll always be able to answer right away, but I _will_ answer."

Barnes just shrugs, leaning against the front door.

"Right," you sigh. "I'm just going to grab my things and then I'll be on my way. Need me to lock up?"

"No, the security system is automated. We can take care of that once everyone is outside," Steve tells you.

Before you can process what's happening, he's got you wrapped up in his arms, _hugging_ you, talking into your hair as he practically lifts you off your feet.

"I can't thank you enough," he says, voice breaking. "You ever need anything, you or Ana or anyone else at the school, you just say the word. I owe you."

"No debts," you chide as he puts you back down. "I'm not a bloody loan shark."

Barnes huffs and knocks his head against the doorframe.

"Think you could step away for just a minute?" you ask Steve, straightening your t-shirt where it had begun to ride up your torso.

"Sure," he answers, taking several steps back into the foyer and pretending to be very interested in one of the oil paintings hanging in the hallway.

"Barnes…" you start, reaching out to touch his shoulder. He jerks away from you, eyes hard and red around the edges.

"You should be coming with us," he says. "You're my doctor."

"Except that I'm not a doctor—"

"You're the only one I want," he insists. "Please… Don't I get to have a say in this?"

"Don't _I?_" you counter. "I want you to get better, and you need help that I'm not qualified to provide. This part of our acquaintance—patient and caregiver—is over now. What we are to each other going forward is mostly your decision."

"What do you mean?" he asks, tracing the moulding around the front door with his metal hand.

"We could try being friends," you suggest. "You're going to need those as much as you'll need a good doctor."

"You—you'll come and visit, right?"

"That's largely what friends do," you tell him, trying to leech some of the hurt out of the conversation. "As soon as your doctors say you're ready for visitors, I'll come down and catch up with you. You can bitch and moan about your shitty medical team, and how annoying Stark is, and so on. We'll have a couple beers and, shit, I don't know, watch the telly."

"Promise," he says. _Says_, not asks.

"I swear," you tell him. "Cross my heart."

You make sure Steve understand that the medical file needs to be given to whomever is selected to be Barnes' chief physician. To whom the information is then disseminated to will be his or her call; no one else's.

* * *

"I'll talk to Tony about the killswitch Barnes told us about," Rogers adds. "Hopefully he'll know what to do."

"He will," you assure him. "If he's half as smart as he claims, he'll figure it out."

After that, you say your final farewells and head out the back. Your bike is still tucked away behind the hedges, precisely where you left it. After wiping it clean of leaves and dirt, you walk it out to the front of the house, settling yourself onto the seat.

Natasha and the ugly little Buick are already gone, though the black-on-black SUV that will take Barnes to Avengers Tower is still idling in front of the house. You wave at the tinted windows before turning the engine over.

The SUV pulls away, heading toward Midtown, while you navigate back toward Jewel Avenue, where you then merge onto the highway. You follow that for a while before pulling off onto the Taconic State Parkway, where the last traces of the city finally fade into deep, dark woods, and rolling green lawns bordered with wrought-iron fences, crowned by European-style estates that typify the area.

After almost an hour of zipping along the winding, scenic roads, you pull through the gates of Xavier's. You slow to a crawl, then slide off of the bike entirely, walking it the final 100 yards to the garage where the preferred vehicles of the other staff members are kept.

Ana is waiting for you, swatting at the mosquitoes drawn to the bright lights of the building. She's bouncing on her feet, clutching her cell phone in her hands.

"He _texted_ me!" she gushes, rushing out to you before you can get the bike (or yourself) inside.

"Who texted you?" you ask, feigning ignorance.

"Oh don't be daft," she scowls. "_Captain America!_ He texted me and said I was 'amazing,' and _his_ hero! This is, like, the best day ever. He even sent me a picture!"

She turns the phone so you can see. Steve has, in fact, sent her a selfie (you weren't aware grandpas did things like that, so color you surprised). He's saluting and trying to look stoic, but you can see the laughter in his eyes. You figure Wilson must have taken it.

"God, he's such a nerd," you groan, handing the phone back.

"You can't say things like that!" Ana says, affronted. "He's a _national treasure_."

"Oh, for Heaven's sake. Back inside!" you order with a laugh, shooing her toward the door that connects to the main house. "You have to be up early tomorrow for class."

Ana runs ahead of you, clutching her phone to her chest as if it were a puppy.

"Should _not_ have suggested text messaging," you moan to yourself, shuffling in after your sister. "There'll be no living with her now."


	9. Chapter 9

Yet I know, if I stepped aside,  
released the controls, you would open my eyes.  
That somehow, all of this mess  
is just an attempt to know the worth of my life…

I'll go anywhere you want me.

-"Mercury," Sleeping at Last

* * *

That first night, he dreams.

It's dark in Brooklyn though he can't see any stars.

The streets seem foreign, wrong somehow, but he knows he lived here once, called it 'home,' walked his Ma and his sisters to church, snuck out with the Rogers boy searching for fun but finding trouble, knows that he necked with an older girl—Iris? Iris.—behind the Paramount Theater on DeKalb and refused to tell his pal about it because he was a gentleman, and anyway just thinking about it made him blush.

The rain slants down like it's aiming for him, and a chill creeps up his spine, hinting at other memories of cold, and agony, and forgetting. He hunches further into his jacket, wishing he had a hat or an umbrella, something, _anything_ to keep the goddamn rain outta his eyes.

It's dark and getting darker, but the streetlights standing crooked along the avenue wink out, one after another, and the wind howls like a demon, like something on the hunt, and he can't shake the feeling that _he's_ the one it's after.

He tries to walk faster, but the rain in his eyes and the screaming in his head make it hard, make it seem like there's cement in his shoes, glue in his veins. He tries to raise his arm to shield his eyes, but only finds a bloody stump, ragged at the ends with torn flesh and splintered bone.

_It left blood in the snow_, he thinks, and he wonders if Steve will use the trail to track him.

He cradles the ruined arm against his chest, calling out for someone in one of the houses to come out and help him, anyone, _anyone_, because he's scared and the pain is starting to roll over him in waves so intense he thinks he's gonna lose it, right here on the sidewalk, just fall down and scream for his Ma, for Jesus, the Devil, anyone who can make it stop.

But no one comes. No lights flicker on, no curious faces peek out behind the moldy, rotting curtains. No one _ever_ comes.

The thunder crashes down like the world is ending, and he remembers being six years old, huddled under the covers with Stevie, his best friend in the whole world, both of them staring at each other wide-eyed, trying not to jump when the next sharp crack of thunder rattled the windowpane, each accusing the other of being a lily-livered scaredy cat crybaby _coward_, and somehow that made it less frightening, made it more like a game, like an adventure. Him and Stevie were always going off on adventures.

He crosses to the next block, shoes and socks and pants soaked as the sewers back up, the gutters flooded with the deluge that shows no signs of weakening.

He sputters, tries to keep his hair out of his eyes (when did it get so _long?_), and stumbles up onto the sidewalk again, shivering so hard he almost bites through his own tongue.

He starts trying doors, clambering up the stoops and banging on them, begging for someone inside to please open up, just let him drip-dry in the front room until the storm lets up, _please_, he's drowning out here, and his arm is really bad and bleeding, and why won't you open the _goddamn_door?

He tries ten doors, a hundred, before collapsing and drawing his legs up to his chest, hiding his head between his knees and struggling not to look at the ruin of his arm, trying not to think about how he'll bleed to death long before the water sweeps up and over his head.

He's lost, and he's done _horrible_, _terrible_, _unspeakable_ things, so why should anyone come? Who would want him now? Broken and vicious, the pieces left behind barely held together in the shape of something vaguely human.

_I found him! _A girl's voice zips through the air, and his head jerks up, his heart leaps in his chest. Someone is out there, someone is looking.

_I found him! I found him! _She singsongs, and he swears the rain lets up a little bit, just enough for him to see the hazy outline of the opposite side of the block. Had it really been so close? He'd begun to think it might not exist, that Brooklyn had been a town of one-sided streets that faded into nothingness.

He strains to hear the voice again, pushes himself back onto his feet, leans on the brick wall behind him like a drunk. He tries to call out, to tell her that he's _here_, right here, but his words turn to ashes, to dust, in his mouth and all he can do is make noises like some kind of _animal_, and he thinks, _well,_ _you _are_ the company you keep._

The rain redoubles its efforts, biblical in its attempt to sink the world beneath the waves for a second time. He remembers Sister Rosemarie telling him, telling the whole class, that God had destroyed the world with water once and sealed his promise to never do so again with a rainbow.

_That dirty liar_, he thinks, tilting his head up to look at the bruised, septic clouds that hang heavy overhead.

Something on the next block catches his attention and he squints through the downpour to see a single streetlight flare to life, sizzling and crackling. Someone stands inside that radiance and he knows, _knows_, he has to get to her.

She sees him, he can tell by the way her silhouette straightens, the way she turns toward him.

_Please_, he thinks. _Please._

She runs, and he swears the shallow rivers of water part for her, boil away like she's made of fire, of the Sun, of the chemical reactions that give birth to entire galaxies. She reaches for him and he reaches back, but with the wrong arm, an arm of metal with a red star like a target on his shoulder and he screams.

She takes the hand anyway, drags him to her and away from the crumbling building he'd been leaning against. He's whimpering and trying to pull away, to hide the horror of the machine, _don't let her see_, to hide the horror of what he is. She'll leave him in the rain and the dark if she knows.

She turns back and smiles, sad around the edges of her eyes, and tightens her grip.

_I know_, that smile says. _I know and it's okay._

She slips her hand in his, her fingers warm against the metal, seeping through and making him feel light, and alive, like he could maybe one day be a person again.

She starts running once more, and his legs finally obey him, he matches her stride-for-stride, though she's quick as a deer. He watches her feet, bare and clean despite the filthy water, and soon they're pressing through mud, then grass and stone, and he looks up and Brooklyn is _gone_.

She leads him up a rain-slick hill, and while he slips and scrambles on hands and knees to keep up, she races up ahead, nimble as a goat. By the time he reaches the top, she's leaping down the opposite slope, urging him to follow.

_Stay with me_, her voice in his head says, and he can hear the laughter in it, like everything is going to be okay, like the rain and the many-headed hunters he can always _feel_ hounding him are only worthy of her mockery, her contempt, her brash defiance.

She dashes out into the field at the bottom of the hill, stilt-legged white birds erupting out of the grass around her, wings beating against the air with frantic abandon. She turns, cheeks red with exertion, and smiles again.

He slides, trips, tumbles down the hill, panting into the dirt before she's crouched in front of him, brushing his too-long hair from his eyes.

The rain has finally stopped, though the clouds still roil and threaten, waiting for an opening, for an opportunity, and then they'll vent their fury again and—

Her hand presses against his cheek, slides down to cradle his jaw.

_Up_, she tells him. _We have to keep going._ _We're almost there_.

He nods, pushes himself up, and she's off running, her laughter rippling through the air like a tangible thing.

He follows after her, sprinting through the long grass, feeling it drag along his face, the smell of _green_ and growing things in his nose, his mouth, his throat and he wonders, for a moment, if he's ever smelled anything so good.

She's flying ahead of him and he can't believe how fast she is, but those long legs never seem to grow tired, and it's as though the earth bends to cradle her each time she touches back down, like she's an old friend, like she _belongs_ here in a way he's never felt he belonged anywhere.

Trees rise up around him that reach into the dark sky forever, their tops lost in the clouds. He can hear insects singing, the rustling and buzz of living things, and he spares a thought for all the secret lives that come and go, are born and die, deep in these woods where no one is watching.

She touches the trunks like she knows each one, dancing around them like a wood nymph, like she's one of the fey, ethereal and mischievous, and leading him to safety.

He rests against one of the trees, sucking in air, dizzy and half-delirious. She waits nearby, her skin covered in opalescent shells-_no-_scales_,_though she's bare everywhere that wouldn't be considered sinful, and _how did he not notice before?_

"Who-?" he asks, startled by his own voice, but she just shakes her head and presses a finger against his bloody mouth.

_Not here_, she tells him without moving her lips. _It isn't safe._

She takes his hand again, and walks with him, curling her arm around his and running her fingers up and down the interlocking plates as if she admires them, as if they aren't the outward proof of just how little is left of the man he was, before he fell, before they stole him and he was left behind. Before they made him into a weapon.

She pulls his arm closer to her, rests her head against his shoulder as they walk, and she points ahead of them.

_There_, she says, and he can see the clearing where the trees dwindle and the soft carpet of pine needles and loamy soil give way to stone. A cliff, reaching out into nothing, into darkness, and he pulls back, plants his feet.

"No," he says, shaking his head. "I can't."

_You can_, she assures him before breaking away, charging at the outcrop and _leaping_ into the void with a wild, reckless abandon that he envies and hates simultaneously.

But in the end, he follows. He'll _always_ follow where she leads.

He pushes off, away, _out_, and pinwheels his arms as if that's going to help somehow, like he can _fly_, but he just drops like a stone, down, down. His feet break the surface first, and he plunges into the water, bracing for _ice_, and _freezing_, but finding a gentle heat that soothes.

He opens his eyes and sees her floating in front of him. She points down and kicks, swimming away from him and he thinks _no_, _that's the wrong way_ and tries to grab her, but she slips from his fingers, sleek as a sea lion and just as quick.

So he does the only thing he really can, and follows once more.

His lungs burn, he has to fight the urge to inhale, but he can still see her, practically _glowing_ in the blue-black depths.

Suddenly, without warning, up and down switch, and he feels himself buoyed, lifted, rocketing to the surface on he other side. When he breaks out into open air he gasps, coughs, gulps air down into his chest and tries not to slip beneath the water again.

She's there, bobbing gently and slicing through the water towards him. She gets her arm over his shoulder, across his chest, and digs her hand into his armpit. She pulls and he feels his back press against her chest, can feel the outline of her scales and her hips and her breasts, can feel the strength in her arms and her legs and again is left to question_ who is this woman?_

She tows him to shore, his head pressed against hers, trying to see her through the corners of his eyes. Once they can stand she helps him right himself and then they both walk the rest of the way. Her hand finds his again, and she threads her fingers between his, squeezing gently every now-and-then.

Finally, _finally_, they both collapse on the sand. She's breathing hard, and he's surprised to see something so human from someone who seems to defy every limitation a human is supposed to have. He reaches over and with his flesh hand traces some of the scales that pebble her skin, rows of them forming a pattern that speaks of secrets and power, a gift that reaches back for centuries.

"What are you?" he asks, and her eyes drift over to his with a kind of lazy self-satisfaction he thought only cats and the French capable of.

"That's complicated," she says, and he thrills to hear her voice, to really _hear _it.

He opens his mouth to ask another question but she just shakes her head and points up to the sky.

He follows the graceful line of her arm until the wide swath of brilliant stars fill his field of vision.

"Have you ever seen anything so beautiful?" she asks.

He looks back at her, folds both his hands on his chest and thinks, _Yes._

"You're safe now, Barnes," she tells him, still staring at the heavens with a kind of soul-deep awe he can hardly imagine being the subject of (but maybe, one day, someone-_she_-might look at him that way?).

"Stay with me," he whispers back, turning his head so he can join her in her reverence of the night sky.

"Always," she promises, and he believes her.


	10. Chapter 10

"Seeking to forget makes exile all the longer; the secret of redemption lies in remembrance."

-Richard von Wiezsaecker

* * *

"_He's getting worse_," Steve texts you. It's been four days since your adventure in the city and almost none of Rogers' updates have been good. "_Three of Stark's doctors have quit already_."

"Why?" you text back, leaving your phone where you can see it next to the stack of term papers you're determined to finish grading before the week is out.

"_He scares them. He either refuses to speak or threatens them with violence_."

You sigh, tapping your pen against the surface of your desk.

"You have to give him time, Steve. He has to give himself time. This isn't going to be solved in a week."

"_I know_," he answers immediately. "_But it's like he's checked out. He locks himself in his room. I have to practically break the door down and drag him to his appointments_."

You pinch the bridge of your nose and toss your pen clear across the room.

"… _You should hear the things he says_," Steve continues. "_The Bucky Barnes I knew would never talk like that_."

"He's not the Barnes you knew," you remind him. "He's not sure who he is anymore. That won't be an easy thing to figure out, not after what they did to him."

"_I know that_," he responds, though you get the feeling he had a much longer answer typed out before replacing it. "_I'm afraid he's going to bolt the first chance he gets_."

"He might. I did, when I first moved to the U.S. to dorm at Xavier's."

"… _What about Ana_?"

"She wasn't like me. Still isn't. She barely remembers our lives before Dr. MacTaggert or Professor Xavier, before the school. I thought she'd be better off without me around to screw it up."

"_But you went back… for her_?"

"No. I went back because I had nowhere else to go. Also, Logan can be very persuasive when he's spent the better part of his weekend tracking you down," you explain. "Anyway, has Tony's team learned anything we didn't already know about Barnes?"

"_The arm is damaged internally, though he won't let Stark get close enough to do a full scan. We know it has to be worked on, maybe removed and refitted, but if anyone so much as mentions it, he starts yelling in Russian and we have to get Nat to talk him down_."

"Is he eating?"

"_Not enough_," Steve texts. "_Banner has him on a 6000 calorie per day nutritional plan, with a dietician to monitor his intake, but mostly he pushes everything around on his plate. What he does eat, he usually throws up_."

"Banner read my report? I noted the likelihood of a compromised or damaged digestive system. He needs probiotics, easily digested foods, and probably something to help break down all the scar tissue as his body catches up."

"_He did read it_," he answers. "_He's Bucky's primary doctor. We have him on a ton of pills and he hates all of them_."

"As long as he takes them, I don't care how cranky he gets," you text back. "But seriously, Steve, it's only been a few days. Let him settle in, get used to the routine. Don't let this shake you. Or him."

"_Copy that_," he responds. "_I asked if he wanted to talk to you. He stormed off and slammed his door_."

"When was this?"

"_Just now_," he says. "_He was in here, trying to read over my shoulder_."

"Keep me posted," you finish. "I've got to get through these papers or I'll be dealing with them into the weekend."

"_Okay_," he says. "_Thanks for listening. Texting. Whatever terminology is correct_."

"Dork," you accuse.

"_Only for my whole life!_" he agrees, adding a smiley face at the end.

You flip your cell phone over and focus on the stack of papers spread out on the desk. After a few seconds rummaging in one of the drawers for another pen, you get back to the task-at-hand, making notations along the margins regarding sentence structure and how to properly frame a hypothesis.

You're only a few minutes in when a set of hairy knuckles rap against the frame of the doorway leading into your classroom.

"What?" you ask, not bothering to look up from your work.

"Team meeting," Logan growls around an unlit stogie. "Your presence is required, Duchess."

"Don't call me that," you sneer, circling an entire paragraph and questioning it's germaneness to the paper's established topic. "You've got more blue blood flowing in your veins than anyone in my family ever did."

He snorts, and pops the cigar out of his mouth. He's chewed the end to tatters and you know he'll be picking out bits of tobacco from his teeth for the rest of the night.

"Yeah, but I don't have the fancy accent," he says, smirking at you from the threshold.

"What's the meeting about?" you ask, refusing to let him bait you into another argument about pedigrees or which of you had the more fucked up childhood.

"Like you gotta ask," he says, turning the cigar over in his hand. "Scott's pissed."

"Because I got involved in 'Avenger's business'?" you ask.

"Because you got _Ana_ involved in 'Avengers business.'"

_Shit_.

"She's fine," you note, finally settling back in your chair and abandoning your apparently doomed attempt to get ahead of your workload.

"I know," he says, slotting the end of the stogie between his teeth once more. "You're her guardian, not me, or Summers, or Chuck. What you and your family get up to is your business."

"Then why the meeting?"

He shrugs, "Scott's _pissed_."

You roll your eyes and push away from the desk, resigned to your fate.

"C'mon, Duchess. Let's get this over with," Logan drawls, heading down the hallway toward the Professor's office.

* * *

"How could you be so irresponsible?" Scott fumes, stalking in front of the lead-lined windows set into the wall behind Charles' desk, where the man himself is sitting, allowing the others to speak before adding his own opinion into the mix. The entire team hasn't been assembled, thank God, just whomever happened to be on campus when the call went out, that being Scott, Jean, Hank, and Logan.

And the Professor, of course, but that usually goes without saying.

"Because I wasn't _being_ irresponsible," you snap. "If you think I would ever willfully put Ana in danger-"

"You _did_ put her in danger," he argues, looking to Jean for support. Instead, she sighs and looks away. "Am I the only one who sees how obviously stupid this whole fiasco was?"

"The Winter Soldier isn't exactly the kind of person a teenager should be poking at with a stick," Dr. McCoy observes. "Though I'm sure he'd make a fascinating case-study."

"It was risky," Jean agrees. "And speaking as someone who has worked closely with your sister as she develops her gifts, I would have never allowed her to get involved. Not only could he have hurt her, she could have easily hurt _him_. Or you. Perhaps especially you, considering what you two did."

"I made a call," you defend. "You weren't there. You didn't _see_—"

"He's not our problem," Scott seethes. "What happened to him is horrible and I wouldn't wish it on my worst enemy, but we have enough to worry about—"

"That's all we ever seem to do anymore. Sit and worry. Worry and sit."

"So your solution is to go _looking_ for a fight? Do you have any idea how much of our own blood we had to spill to find a little peace? A little solitude?"

"Excuse me while I go fetch my smallest violin, Summers," you growl. "If I wanted peace and solitude, I'd move to a deserted island, like Lensherr did."

"I'd hardly call Genosha deserted," Jean observes. "Regardless, you should have told _someone_ what you were planning. I can understand not telling Scott—"

"Excuse me?"

"—But if something had gone wrong, it would have been wise to have one of us standing by to help Ana regain control," she finishes, shooting Scott a disapproving look for interrupting her.

"I agree with Jean," Charles says, calmly steepling his fingers together in front of him. "I appreciate the bond that you and your sister share—you trust her, perhaps more than you'll ever trust anyone else—but she's a minor, and she would do anything you asked, even if she had her own reservations or fears about your request. You need to understand the influence you have over her…"

"I do," you admit, ducking your head deferentially to him. "And you're right. I should have told someone what was happening. That was poor judgment on my part. It's just… things moved rather quickly after we found him in Brooklyn. If you could have seen—"

"I believe you," he nods. "We don't have much information about HYDRA, but what we do know is a testament to their willingness to abandon all moral and ethical considerations toward their fellow Man in pursuit of their goals."

"Nazis," Logan mutters, staring out one of the windows at the long stretch of verdant lawn leading towards the woods. "Of every enemy I fought in every war they dragged me into, it was the _Nazis_ I hated most."

"Yes, I think we can all agree that HYDRA is _bad_," Scott snarks. "But that doesn't make what she did—"

"She already apologized, Cyke," Logan snaps, ripping the stogie from his mouth, jabbing the air with it as if punctuating his words. "What the fuck else you want? Pound of flesh? Firstborn son?"

Summers pauses, jaw clamping shut and his right fist curling into a club. He looks like he's actually considering throwing a punch before Jean clears her throat and he's called back to reality.

"Scott," you start, dropping your hands to your sides in defeat. "I screwed up. But I would never deliberately put Ana in danger. Please tell me you know that."

He huffs and plants his hands on his hips, glancing to Jean before looking back at you.

"I know," he finally admits. "I just—You're both so _young_. The world's not all sunshine and rainbows, but I was hoping that you two wouldn't have to see how ugly it really is for a bit longer."

You look down at your feet, shaking your head slightly.

"You know what happened in Edmonton, before Dr. MacTaggert showed up," you remind him. "I was already well acquainted with how unfair and unjust the world can be."

Scott blows out his breath and heads for the door, pausing next to you for a moment. He puts a hand on your shoulder and squeezes gently.

"Don't do it again," he says, mouth twisting into a half-smile. "Or I'll ground you for a month."

"Yes, _Dad_," you deadpan, chuckling softly as he sees himself out of the office.

"I'm going to talk to Ana," Jean tells you, following Scott. "I want to make sure she's okay. Has she talked to you about anything she might have seen?"

"She told me she didn't look," you supply. "Just figured out where he was and got me inside his head when things went pear-shaped."

"Understood," she says, stepping out of the office, hands clasped behind her back.

"I'm curious," McCoy starts, turning slightly in his chair. "What is your professional opinion on Sergeant Barnes?"

"He's a mess," you reply with a slight shrug. "If he's ever able to live independently it'll be a small miracle. From what I saw in the file Romanoff procured for Rogers, he's lucky to be forming coherent sentences."

"He's augmented, like Captain Rogers," Hank states, brushing some imaginary dust or fuzz from the cobalt fur of his arms.

"A knock-off serum cobbled together by a man named Arnim Zola. They killed dozens of POWs at a HYDRA factory near Klagenfurt, Austria, before getting to Barnes. They made the prisoners work on weapons production and other tech, and when their bodies finally gave out, they'd send them to some kind of isolation ward. Zola would inject them with whatever combination of drugs and chemicals he was working on and document the results. As far as the records indicate, Barnes was the only one to survive."

"Stars and garters," Hank mutters, delicately plucking his glasses from the bridge of his nose and polishing them with his shirt. "That poor boy."

"It gets so much worse," you tell him. "You have no idea."

"I'd like to meet with him," he says. "When he's ready, of course. I understand from Charles that both Barnes and Rogers have an… _understanding_of what we are. I assume my appearance wouldn't be too jarring?"

"I'm not sure how much of that information Barnes was able to process," you caution. "He was pretty out of it, and Rogers has since told me he's deteriorating further. Granted, it's only been a few days, but his memory is shot as it is. I can always ask if he minds having another doctor from the school consult on his case, though."

"I would appreciate that," Hank says, smiling and rising from his seat. "And not just because I'm intensely curious about what's been done to him. I_do_ hope that I can help him in some way."

You could hug Hank in that moment, but you know it'll only get him flustered and tripping over his own tongue so instead you return his smile and tell him you'll make the suggestion the next time you see or speak to Barnes.

"Well," he says, clapping his hands together. "I should probably get back to the lab." He sidles out of the room—an impressive feat for someone so large—and you're left in the office with the Professor and Logan.

"This ain't gonna end well," Logan says, still staring out the window.

"God, you sound like Barnes," you groan, slumping into the nearest chair. "Always so negative."

"Just sayin'. Someone like that… there's no putting it all back together. His story doesn't get a happy ending."

"You think he's a lost cause?" Charles asks, turning slightly to face the surly Canadian.

"Yup. And I think _she's_ a sucker for lost causes," he says, pointing at you with his cigar.

"Like this is an established pattern of behavior or something," you scowl. "What other 'lost causes' have I attached myself to?"

He just stares back at you, one brow arching almost comically in a severe angle that distorts his whole face.

"What, _you_?"

He shrugs, popping the stogie back in his mouth.

"Oh for pity's sake, shall I fetch that tiny violin after all?"

He flips you the bird and heads out of the room, probably to go smoke that sodding cigar within the safety of the boathouse or the woods.

"He cares a great deal for you and Ana," Charles lightly chides. "You in particular. And his concern isn't entirely unwarranted."

"I promise I'll be careful not to over-commit," you reassure him. "And Ana stays out of it unless I discuss it with you and Jean first."

"When do you think you'll see them again?"

"Rogers and Barnes? Whenever the medical team clears him for visitors, I suppose. He'll have to _want_ me to come, of course. I won't impose where I'm not welcome—"

"Oh, I don't think that will be an issue," Charles says, eyes creasing at the corners.

"Don't know_ what _you're implying," you sniff, turning to the door.

"Youth," the Professor says to your back, "is wasted on the young." He laughs to himself as you shut the door behind you, biting back a retort about _old people_ and their _desperately needing hobbies_.

* * *

You briefly return to your classroom to gather up your things (term papers included) and then retreat to the suite you share with Ana in the upstairs residential wing. A few of the students call to you as you pass by, and you answer with a wave or a nod of your head.

Finally, _blessedly_, you reach your room and quickly shut the door behind you, throwing the bolt against any overly-excited students rushing in to ask you a question, or looking for Ana. During the day, when you're not teaching or training, you leave it open, allowing the kids to drift in and out as they please, sometimes with questions, concerns, or idle conversation; sometimes just to sit quietly with someone else, sharing the space.

With an exaggerated sigh, you flop down onto your bed, dropping the stack of essays to the side. You'll get to them later. Probably. Maybe.

You drag your cellphone out of your pants pocket, checking for any texts or missed messages. There are a few from Steve regarding Barnes, who apparently emerged from his room not long after locking himself inside, immediately demanding to know what you two had been talking about.

"What'd you tell him?" you text Rogers.

"_The truth_."

"How'd he take it?" you ask.

"_About as well as you'd expect. Said if you had any questions about his progress, you should ask him_," he answers.

"Then he should get on the goddamn phone. I have lots of questions."

A moment later, your phone vibrates softly, the screen lighting up with the goofy selfie Rogers had sent Ana a few days ago. You'd set it as his contact picture after swiping Ana's cell and sending the picture to yourself.

"Hello?" you chirp, stretching back against the bed far enough that your head tips over the edge.

"… Your voice sounds weird," Barnes grumbles. "I hate these things."

"What? Cell phones?"

He grunts and you hear a door close in the background.

"Five minutes," he says. "Then I'm hanging up."

"You told Steve you _wanted_ to talk to me," you remind him.

"I—I do. Just… ask whatever you want to ask," he stammers.

"How're you doing?"

"Shitty," he answers immediately. "Feels like… like I'm gonna crawl right out of my own skin."

"Rogers tells me you're not eating. Or cooperating with your medical team—"

"They're not _my_ medical team—" he interrupts, but you plow right on ahead, because the man said _five minutes_ and you've no doubt he means exactly that long and not a second longer.

"—or allowing Stark to check out your arm. You remember what you told us about it, right?"

"I can't help it," he sighs. "He's sitting there, with that goddamn music blasting, and his stupid t-shirts, and he won't shut the fuck up, and just keeps _poking_ at me like I'm a robot, like I'm one of his cars. He won't even look at me, and he talks to Steve the whole time like I'm not there, like I'm not a _person_."

"Does it hurt?"

"I ain't that fragile," he gripes. "I'm not about to let the spawn of Howard Stark shred my precious feelings."

"Not that," you huff. "The _arm_. Does it hurt when he's inspecting it?"

"Of course it hurts," he says, the unspoken _you idiot_ ringing rather clearly across the line.

"Have you told him that?" you continue, already sure of the answer.

Silence, and then: "Can't. Want to, but can't."

"Why?"

"Nggh," he groans. "Conditioning. No speaking when the techs are—are doing work. Repairs. Upgrades. Have to be _quiet_ and _still_."

"Take a deep breath," you tell him, the strain in his voice reminding you of how he'd wind himself up tight as a drum while beginning to hyperventilate.

"You should be here," he finally says, though the words still seem hard to get out and he's breathing harder than a man having a simple conversation with a sort-of associate ought to be.

"You need to try to trust people other than just myself and Steve," you tell him.

"Natalia—_Natasha_—isn't bad. She has the good vodka, the real stuff. And Wilson is tolerable. Talks too much, though. Likes the sound of his own voice. Always with—with the jokes."

"I told you I'd come to visit when you'd made enough progress with your doctors," you remind him, once again picking up on his fluctuating struggle with words. "You're not holding up your end of the bargain."

Another long pause.

"Sorry," he finally exhales. "I—I forget, sometimes, and I'm back with _them_, and you and Steve being in Brooklyn, finding me, it's like a half-remembered dream. Too good to be true. I don't mean to forget," he admits, clearly frustrated.

"I know; no one is angry with you because you're struggling. We anticipated this, remember? We talked about how this was going to be messy, about how the bad days would outnumber the good by a significant degree."

"Yeah," he says. "I know, I do. Really. I just think this would be easier if you were here to remind me. I hear you better than Steve."

"Not talking any louder or saying anything different," you counter, a bit confused by that last confession.

"Not what I mean," he grumbles, and you hear another door shut.

"Where are you?" you ask, sitting up on the bed.

"Closet," he tells you. "It's dark and small. Feels familiar, _safe_. How fucked up is that?"

"Pretty fucked up," you agree, brow furrowed with concern. "Why would—"

"You know why," he says, voice dropping to something just above a whisper. "They didn't put me up in a five star hotel for 70 years."

"Barnes…"

"You gotta come to the Tower," he says. "I know I'll be better if you're here."

"The earliest I can come down is this weekend," you tell him. "And I still want Dr. Banner's approval before I pack a bag."

"This weekend?" he asks. "Tomorrow is Friday. You could come down tomorrow night."

"Saturday morning," you correct. "A lot of the students go home on the weekend and staff is needed to help greet parents, arrange taxis, drop the kids off at Amtrak, and so on. All hands on deck, as it were."

"When will you talk to Banner?" he asks.

"Tomorrow afternoon, and I _will_ abide by his decision. No arguments."

"No arguments," he concedes. "Can you text Steve after you know what you're doing?"

"Do you have a phone of your own?"

"I broke it," he says. "Grabbed for it with the wrong hand."

"I can text Steve," you tell him. "I'll tell him to buy you a burner."

"A what?"

"A _burner_. A cheap cell phone with basic features that is made to be used and discarded."

"Your generation," he grouses, "doesn't make anything to last."

"Oh my God, don't start," you groan. "Any more appointments for today?"

"No," he says. "Steve will try to get me to come out and watch a movie or something. Probably as soon as I get off the phone with you."

"What've you been watching lately?"

"He keeps putting on _cartoons_," he sighs. "They used to show a few before the movie, and those were only a five minutes long. Now they go on_forever_."

You laugh a little, eyes snapping over to the doorway that adjoins your room to Ana's. She's hovering just outside of your direct line of sight, but you know she's there.

"Before I forget," you lead, "one of my colleagues here at the school would like to consult on your case, if you'll allow it."

"That's Dr. Banner's call," he answers, words clipped.

"Well, yes, I'll be asking permission from him as well, but I'm not going to invite anyone else to look through your information without clearing it with you first."

"Another doctor?"

"Technically, he's a biochemist, but he's been our team medic and in-house physician for years. He's the whole reason I want to become a doctor," you explain. "He's a really good person, Barnes. He'd like to help."

"He doesn't know me," he presses.

"But he knows _me_," you insist. "And he knows that I care, so he cares. That's how families work."

"Fine. You have my blessing," he huffs. "Anything else?"

"See you Saturday," you reply. "Pending Dr. Banner's approval."

You listen as he exhales slowly, then hear the closet door open.

"Thanks," he says. "Gonna go watch that movie with Steve. You ever see _The French Connection_?"

"That's… not a cartoon," you observe.

"No shit. If I have to sit through another two hours of talking lions or enchanted castles, I might actually shoot someone."

"Good night, Sergeant," you chuckle.

"Night," he says, then disconnects.

Ana peeks around the doorway, drumming her fingers against the wall.

"So…?"

You pat the end of the bed, inviting her in to sit down.

"Dr. Grey spoke with you earlier," you note. "I'm not going to pretend like this isn't a very serious situation, with potentially dangerous ramifications should things go south, so I need to know how involved you want to be."

"You're _asking_ me? Not just telling me to stay out of it?"

"The only reason Barnes is alive is because of you, Ana. We wouldn't have found him without you, and I don't think he had much time left with that laceration. Even if he'd survived it somehow, he was hurtling downhill in terms of his physical and mental condition. It was only a matter of time."

"I want to stay involved," she says firmly with a single nod of her head. "You don't have to tell me everything—I don't think I _want_ to know everything—but I can handle this."

"I know you can. That's why I called you in the first place back in Brooklyn," you answer, then pause while you mull over what needs to be said next. "He's not in good shape. We knew this would be difficult, but he's worse than I expected."

"So you're going back to the city this weekend?"

You shoot her a look, lips pursed. "You know I am. You listened to most of the conversation."

"All of it, actually," she admits with a slight blush. "I'm glad you're going. He needs you."

"Not sure about that," you huff. "But if I can keep him steady long enough for Stark to examine his arm properly, disengage whatever it is that HYDRA built in as a killswitch, it'll be worth the effort."

"God, you can be a proper idiot, sometimes," she sighs, sliding off the bed and shuffling back to her room. "He _needs_ you. You. Not whoever happens to be around, and not just to hold his hand."

"Don't be absurd," you snort. "Even if that were the case-that Barnes has some particular attachment to me-he's an absolute _tragedy_ in human form. I'm going to help, not to flirt, you little scoundrel."

"Tell yourself whatever helps you sleep at night," she snarks over her shoulder. "I know you've seen the photos of him from before the war. He was a _fox_."

"He's old enough to be our grandfather," you remind her, throwing a pillow after her retreating form. "Go to bed!"

"The first step is denial!" she shouts back, before shutting the door behind her.

You sit up on the bed and scowl at your shared wall for several minutes before finally dismissing Ana's suggestion as being utterly insane. Not to mention inappropriate. Even if Barnes' physical state wasn't in shambles, even if he had his head on straight, the idea of _you_ and _him _is ridiculous.

Completely ridiculous.

You shake your head and gather up the scattered papers off your duvet, tossing them onto the desk against the adjacent wall. They'll have to wait until tomorrow. Suppressing a yawn, you lie back down, burying your head into the veritable mountain of pillows piled up against the headboard.

Just before you drift to sleep, your phone buzzes again. You grab it, swipe your finger across the screen and squint at the image displayed there, several seconds passing before you realize what you're looking at.

"Ana!" you shout, tossing the wretched bit of technology onto your nightstand. The archive photo of Barnes in his Sergeant's uniform is still lit up, his smile—and he _really _needs to smile more, _goddamn_—beaming at you from the screen.

She cackles wildly, the sound slightly muffled through the wall.

"Love you!" she singsongs, before devolving into another fit of laughter.

"Brat!"

"Product of my environment!"

You swear into one of your pillows before swatting a hand at the light switch next to the bed, plunging the room into darkness.


	11. Chapter 11

"Seeking to forget makes exile all the longer; the secret of redemption lies in remembrance."

-Richard von Wiezsaecker

* * *

You spend most of the next day reviewing course material with your students in anticipation of end-of-term exams, consulting with a few individually to go over college applications and recommendation letters, and then finally seeing nearly a dozen off as their parents or guardians arrive to spirit them home for the weekend.

Scott manages to corner you shortly after dinner, and while he tries to maintain a friendly air, you can tell he's still annoyed with you.

"Danger Room in 10?" he asks, stacking the plates you've just washed in their cupboard.

"Not a training day," you note, wiping down the edges of the sink. "Something in particular you wanted to go over?"

"No," he answers with a shake of his head, light catching on the red lenses stretched across his eyes. "It's just been a while since you and I squared off."

You snort, balling the damp dishtowel up and tossing it at the backsplash.

"Right. I thought we buried that hatchet."

He sighs and turns around, leaning against the counter, suddenly looking his age (which is only a decade-or-so older than you, mind).

"Meet me down there," he replies. "One simulation round, my choice, and then we can consider it resolved."

"You drive a hard bargain, but if it'll get you to stop scowling at me when you think I'm not looking, I'm game."

"I don't scowl," he says. "I _brood_. There's a difference."

You wave him off and finish tidying up before heading down to the lower levels of the school. You know that whatever program Summers sets the simulator to, it's going to be punishing. He might not be white-hot furious with you anymore, but he would be a poor team leader if he let the simmering resentment remain without arranging some kind of outlet.

That usually means getting the warring parties locked in one room where they can duke it out. Charles may have built his school with an abundance of Old World charm and cultured refinement, but you can't have people with personalities as big as those possessed by members of the X-Men living and working (fighting and bleeding) practically on top of each other without expecting a little rough-and-tumble on occasion.

Also, sometimes it just plain helps to _hit_ someone you know will hit back.

Despite yourself, you can't stop grinning as you get changed in the team locker room, stripping out of your clothes and raising a pattern of concealing scales across your body in lieu of one of the team's trademark black leather uniforms. You don't know what parameters Summers is planning to set, but if you can shapeshift, clothing will only get in the way.

You step out into the circular training room, bare feet smacking against the metal floor. Scott's already inside, standing in the center as he plugs in the specifications he's decided on for your sparring session.

"I hate this place when the holograms aren't running," you tell him, smirking as he glances over his shoulder. "It's creepy. Like a tomb."

"Never thought of it that way," he says with a shrug. "Always saw it as a tool."

"So what's the plan, Fearless Leader?" you ask, watching as the panels are illuminated with multiple points of blue-white light.

"Pretty standard run," he says. "No giant robots or anything. This isn't about that."

"Mmm, _hatchets_," you confirm. "Ever wonder why we can't do things like a normal family and just slam doors while shouting hateful things that we'll apologize for later?"

"Normal is boring," he observes. "Besides, I think this is healthier over the long term."

"You're a strange, strange man, Summers."

"So I've been told," he says, laughing a bit.

The hologram finally solidifies and a low-pitched tone sounds, signaling the start of the program.

"Don't hold back."

"Have I ever?" you reply, and launch your attack.

* * *

Less than an hour later, you're sprawled out on the floor, panting and exhausted. Summers is in slightly worse shape, his uniform shredded in several places where claws and teeth managed to break through the leather and Kevlar.

"A hyena?" he groans. "_Really?_"

"You said not to hold back," you snicker. "Be grateful I restricted myself to Holocene mammals."

He pauses, turning his head to look directly at you, one hand still pressed to the nasty shoulder wound you'd inflicted with jaws capable of exerting 1,100 pounds of pressure per square inch.

"Can you go back further than that?" he asks.

"Theoretically. The more primitive the animal, the harder it is to control. Kind of like putting the Blackbird's engine in a DeLorean."

"So, a T-rex?"

"_Theoretically._ Hank thinks it would be a disaster, and he's usually right."

"Still…"

"Stop strategizing," you scold, reaching over to smack him lightly on the arm. "Get yourself down to Medical. You're leaking blood everywhere."

He rolls onto his feet, surprisingly steady for a man who'd been treated like a chew toy by several apex predators only moments before.

"Jean gonna be angry?" you ask, standing once you're sure you won't topple right over. Some of the scorch marks from Summers' optic blasts are still smoking where they burned right through the hologram panels.

"Nah, you left my face alone," he says, and for a moment you see the boyish, charming man so often hidden behind the stern mask of the X-Men's defacto leader. When he's like this, you get why Jean is so wrapped up in him.

Like, _really_ get it.

"We good?"

"He hurts you, I'm gonna have to hurt him back," he says. "You know that, right?"

"He's not going to," you assure him. "Even for someone who understands how, that's difficult to do, as you're well aware."

He sighs and limps out of the Danger Room, presumably to get himself patched up.

"Just remember that I warned you," he calls, not bothering to turn around.

"Like you'd ever let me forget," you snipe before slipping back into the locker room to shower and change. You're just stepping under the spray of hot water when you realize he never actually said that things were okay between you when you'd asked.

"That sly son of a…"

You're about to go off on a rather obscene tangent when you hear the locker room door open and then shut.

"Ya decent?" Logan growls.

"Very, very naked," you inform him. "What's up?"

"Natasha Romanoff is on the phone upstairs. Said you weren't answering your cell. You gave those downtown assholes the campus number?"

"She's a _spy_, Logan," you snap, cutting the hot water off with another string of swear words. "Besides, I'm pretty sure we're listed."

He grunts and looks away as you get a towel wrapped around yourself. You could do the scale trick again, but frankly, you're a hairsbreadth from simply laying down on the floor and going to sleep, so screw it, the towel will have to suffice.

"Seemed urgent," he grumbles, choosing to stare at a spot on the wall just above your head.

"When _isn't_ it urgent?" you scowl, motioning for him to turn around as you get your clothes back on. "Did she give you any specifics?"

"No. Implied it was none of my business."

You tug your shoes on and brush past him, "She still on the line?"

"I have her on hold. Professor's office is clear if you want to take it in there," he answers, following you out.

You both take the elevator up to the main floor, silent during the short ride because Logan is like you and doesn't feel the need to fill empty spaces with even emptier words.

"Want me to get your bike ready?" he asks as you step out into the wood-paneled hallway.

"Top off the gas for me. I repacked my kit yesterday. I was going to call Dr. Banner today to see if it was okay to visit, but if this is an emergency and the Black Widow is calling to give me a heads up, I'll have to assume he's already been consulted."

Logan just shrugs and splits off from you, heading towards the garage. You quicken your pace, your imagination already running a mile-a-minute with all of the disastrous scenarios that might be taking place at Avengers Tower.

You slip into Charles' office and snatch the phone up off his desk.

"Romanoff?"

"Still here," she says, cool as a cucumber. "You guys have to invest in a better hold service. That music was terrible."

"What's going on? Logan seemed to think this wasn't just a friendly call," you ask, wandering over to the bank of windows behind the desk.

"Barnes had another episode," she answers. "Bruce is working with some of the other medical staff to get him stabilized."

"He's conscious?"

"Yes, but he's not _himself_, if you get my meaning," she says. "I'm not sure what happened-I wasn't there- but he's getting worse by the minute. Steve is with him now, trying to get through, but it's not working. He suggested calling you."

"Is Barnes contained?" you ask, dreading the idea of having to ask the Professor or Jean about getting Ana involved so soon after your dressing-down by the team. "Safe? Y'know, relatively speaking."

"Stark put his suit on and wrestled him into one of the containment pods built for The Hulk," she answers. "Steve helped."

"And the three of them were, what, hanging out, playing COD?"

"Barnes volunteered to speak with Tony this morning. Went up to the R&amp;D labs and started telling him everything he knew about the arm, which is a lot, turns out."

"Any idea what set him off?"

"Nothing definite, but JARVIS was recording everything. About 20 minutes into Barnes' show-and-tell, there was a surge of electrical activity originating from inside the prosthetic. My best guess? It short-circuited his brain."

"Seems awfully convenient," you mutter, chewing on your thumbnail.

"I had the same thought," she confirms. "He finally opens up and starts giving us intel that's actually useful, and he gets shut down. Switched on."

"Fucking HYDRA," you swear.

"Yeah, they're a real fun crowd," she deadpans. "Look, Barnes is secure, but he's extremely violent and unstable. Steve thinks you're our best chance of fixing that, though he won't say _why_."

"It's—"

"Complicated," she finishes for you. "I figured. You don't have to explain anything to me. If Steve trusts you, I trust you. At least until you give me a good reason not to."

"I can be there in 45 minutes," you tell her.

"Tower Security wants him neutralized. We've convinced Hill to stand down for now, but Tony's patience is wearing thin. He really hates it when his stuff gets smashed."

"I'll push for 30," you tell her, wincing as you think of the network of narrow, winding roads that carve their way through Westchester towards the city.

"Do that," she says, then disconnects.

You toss the phone back on the desk and sprint out of Charles' office, up the ornate staircase, and back to your quarters. Ana looks up, surprised, as you burst in, two of your camisoles still clutched in her hands.

"I wasn't going to borrow them without asking," she stammers, quickly stuffing both back into your dresser.

"We'll discuss your sticky fingers later," you growl, slamming the drawer shut. "I don't have time for this right now."

"What happened?" she asks, taking a few steps back to stay out of your way as you pull your emergency bug-out bag from the walk-in closet. "Is it Barnes?"

"Yes," you tell her, peeking inside the pack to make sure you don't need anything else. "And it's bad. I have to get down there now, before Stark's people do something truly stupid."

She sits down on the edge of your bed, watching you wide-eyed and clearly frightened.

"It's going to be all right, Shadow," you reassure her, pausing in your scramble to lean over and press a kiss to her forehead. "They've got him secured where he can't hurt anyone."

Her eyes glaze over for a moment, unfocused, and she shivers.

"No—" you bark, grabbing her by the shoulders and giving a little shake. "Don't do that. Not unless we discuss it with the Professor and Dr. Grey first. No more secret missions. Everything is above-board from now on."

She blinks, and bites her lip. "But I can _help_," she protests. "You know I can. It would only take a few minutes, probably, and then he'd be okay."

"You know what the Professor says about trying to fix people's brains using telepathy, yeah?"

Ana slumps her shoulders and looks away.

"That sometimes the mind needs to discover things for itself," she recites. "But—"

"No. He's right. Whatever we did, it might have helped Barnes for a few days, but it's not a permanent solution. He has to do that himself. No shortcuts," you tell her before grabbing your bag and slinging it across your chest and shoulder.

"Hurry," she tells you. "Don't let him sit in that darkness any longer than he has to."

"Ana…"

"Go!" she pleads, pushing you away from the bed. "I'll stay up with my phone, in case you decide you _do_ need me."

You hate the implication there; that because you've told her to stay out of Barnes' head for now, you don't need or want her help at all, but there really isn't any time to spare for an explanation.

"I'll check in when I can," you say instead, then dash out of your room, leaving Ana and her disappointment behind.

You're back down in the garage in a matter of minutes, and Logan is waiting with your bike, already walking it out onto the circular drive.

"How bad?" he asks as you catch up, taking your helmet when it's offered.

"I won't really know until I'm there and can see what's going on, but it sounds like he's down for the count," you sigh. "I think this is my fault."

"Oh?" he asks, pulling a cigar out from a pocket inside his leather jacket.

"I was a bit hard on him last night when we spoke on the phone. He hasn't been very cooperative since arriving at the Tower and I—"

"You did the thing," Logan says, nodding and shoving the cigar in his mouth.

"What _thing_?"

"That thing you do," he grumbles, tearing a match out of the little book he always has on him and lighting up. "The guilt thing."

"Oh fuck off," you groan, mounting the bike and starting the engine.

"You can be a manipulative little shit sometimes, Duchess," he replies, once again pulling no punches.

"I was trying to _help_," you balk, mildly offended. "And if I'm manipulative, it's because that's the only way I can keep you idiots alive."

"Better get goin'," he says, blowing out a steady stream of fragrant smoke. "Avoid the main roads until you hit the parkway."

"Thanks, _sensei_, that hadn't occurred to me," you toss over your shoulder before gunning the engine and ripping through the front gates of the school, gravel and dirt spraying in a rooster's tail behind you.

* * *

"I can't just let you waltz in there," Stark says, poking you in the chest. "He'll tear you apart."

"He won't," you tell him, for the millionth time.

"And I'd still like to know why you're so sure of that, why Captain Spangly Britches seems to think you're some kind of HYDRA assassin-whisperer."

"Is that what she is?" Natasha whispers to Steve.

You're all gathered in the thoroughly trashed remains of Stark's personal R&amp;D lab, the chaos of Barnes' relapse laying shattered and torn apart around you. Pieces of Tony's latest Iron Man suit sit in a pile near his feet, discarded. It's been almost an hour since you left Westchester, and you're beginning to lose your level head (not that you ever had much of one in the first place).

"You're going to have to trust me. I'll sign whatever papers you want stating Stark Industries isn't responsible for what happens to me—"

"You think I'm worried about _liability_?" Stark asks, pressing one hand against his chest and doing his best to appear affronted. "Listen sweetheart, I don't know how they do things up at Hogwarts—"

"Call me _sweetheart_ again," you warn, sneer gone feral around the edges, "and you best be wearing your suit."

"Oh, I like you," Pepper sighs. "Can we keep her?"

"No," he snaps. "And in case you missed it, Comrade Popsicle _trashed_ my suit."

"Couldn't have been a very good one, then," you shoot back.

"It was a prototype," he concedes, then shakes his head, annoyed that you got him to sort-of agree with you. "Clear the room."

"Tony…" Steve starts, holding his hands up.

"Get _out_," Stark sneers. "Hermoine and I need to talk."

"Again with the Harry Potter references," you groan, staring up at the ceiling.

"We'll be right outside," Natasha says, squeezing your arm before leaving with the rest.

"Be nice," Pepper warns, though you can't be sure if she means you or her paramour.

"You gotta give me something here," Tony says once you're alone. "I don't think it's any secret that I have trust issues."

"Hard to keep secrets when you're constantly putting them on display for the entire world to see," you counter.

"God, this is like having an argument with myself," he groans, kicking one of the pieces of his armor into the nearest wall. "Can we just—for like, five minutes—try to have a conversation without feeling the need to prove how fucking _clever_ we think we are?"

You snort and shift your weight from one leg to the other.

"This isn't entirely my information to give. Sharing it with you will have serious ramifications for people I care about. For my family," you pause, letting that sink in. "I'll consent to tell you whatever you need to hear about myself. But _they_ are off limits."

"Understood," he nods. "I can appreciate compartmentalization. Worked with S.H.I.E.L.D. long enough to see the benefits. And the costs."

"One of which is losing his mind in that pod built for Banner's alter-ego as we speak," you remind him, eyes narrowing.

"Right, I get it. Just… give me something."

"Barnes can't hurt me," you repeat. "I have abilities that make it nearly impossible for him to do so."

"Abilities," Stark parrots, skeptical. "Like Steve's? Or… Who _are_ you?"

You lean forward, crossing your arms over your chest and feeling that telltale _itch_ creeping along your spine.

"Not who, but _what_," you correct. "Tell me, Mr. Stark, do you have a favorite _animal?_"

* * *

"Hoo boy," Stark breathes, still backed up against one of the lab's workbenches. "That was—I mean. How do you…? The _mass_ you need to generate and then destroy, that—uh—_physics_, you know?"

"I know," you tell him, toeing the remains of your shredded clothes. You've raised a thick layer of leathery skin and scales over most of your body, determined to keep some of your dignity intact. "We haven't quite figured out all the mechanisms involved."

"The applications—"

"Don't," you warn, a throaty growl accompanying your words.

"Right, right. That was rude. Probably," he says, running his fingers through mussed hair.

"Tell your AI to delete all recordings of what I did," you add.

"It's almost like you don't trust me," Stark gripes before directing JARVIS to do as you've instructed. The AI is impressive, not to mention terribly polite in a way that makes you slightly homesick. If you manage to avoid being banned from the Tower outright, you hope you'll be able to speak with Tony's artificial assistant a bit more.

"Am I clear to go in there now?" you ask, turning toward the back of the lab, where a wall of dark grey hexagonal panels splits the room.

"You know he can kill a tiger about as easily as he can kill a person, right? I mean, he can go toe-to-toe with Rogers _and_ me suited up…"

"I don't need to shock him with a flashy transformation," you tell Stark, turning towards the isolation pod. "That's where you lot have it all wrong."

"Care to elaborate on that?"

"It's _kindness_ that pulls Barnes out. He's not accustomed to it. Punishment, he knows, even expects. Violence. Anger. He hits you, you hit him back. Understandable, but all wrong," you explain.

"Christ, you really are going to try to assassin-whisper him, aren't you?"

"We need to break through the conditioning, Mr. Stark. We need to _shock_ him, get his brain to reboot. Barnes need an opening so he can take back control from the Asset. That's why Steve had Natasha call me. _That_ is why I'm here."

"I'm bringing the rest of them back in," he tells you, already headed toward the hallway that leads out to the elevator. "Just in case."

You shrug, standing in front of the pressure-sealed door that leads into the pod.

"JARVIS?" you ask, glancing up at the ceiling as if that's where the AI lives.

"Yes madam," he replies.

"Cycle the outer lock open," you tell him. "Then seal it once I step inside. Wait fifteen seconds, then cycle the inner lock open."

"I'm afraid I'll need Mr. Stark's approval to—"

"Do what the nice lady says," Tony calls from down the hallway. "I'll be back with the whole gang in a minute."

* * *

The inner door has only just swung open when something heavy and black slams into the wall exactly where your head had been moments before.

_His boot_, you realize, slipping inside and dodging the left hook _also_ aiming for your head.

Barnes comes at you again, wasting no time, pulling his metal arm back to try again for a killing blow.

You move into _koshinage_, grabbing his wrist as his curled fist rockets towards you, open the space between your torsos—you briefly see the look of surprise on his face—turn into his chest, and use his own forward momentum to twist him up and over your back, the down onto the floor where he rolls to his feet with a snarl.

You pivot, reset your stance, and wait for his next move.

He launches himself at you, swinging wildly, screaming something in Russian that you don't quite catch, and you calmly dodge again, stepping around his careening form without ever letting him touch you.

The battle carries on, Barnes becoming more erratic and desperate as his strength flags and his frustration grows.

_Sumi otoshi, nikyo, kotegaeshi, hiji waza, and koshinage _twice more, the practiced movements turning each of the Asset's attacks back on itself, conserving your own energy and wasting his. _Aikido. _The way of harmonious spirit. Logan had hated your choice of martial arts, practically having kittens when you'd followed _Aikido_ up with _Capoeira_.

Thankfully, the former seems to be serving you quite well thus far.

Until it doesn't.

Barnes drops low and shoulders you in the stomach—the same thing he'd done to Steve in Queens—throwing your balance and sending you into the far wall. He rushes forward and pins you, that metal arm grabbing you by the throat and _squeezing_.

You hear the airlock cycling open, managing to shout for the others to stand down, to _wait_. You gasp as Barnes squeezes tighter, crushing your windpipe.

You lock eyes with him and initiate the rapid-fire changes that cause your torso to prickle with energy as entire protein chains are rearranged. He looks confused when you don't black out from the lack of oxygen, when you don't scrabble against him with pain and fear.

Instead, you lift one hand and press it against his face. _You know me_.

Snarling, he slams your head against the wall and then finally, _finally_, looks down.

The sides of your stomach have gone hard, chitinous, rows of _spiracles_—small indentations found along the thorax of most insects—allowing air to flow down into their connecting tubes, where the oxygen mixes with a liquid that then transports the vital gas directly to your cells through your circulatory system.

Throat, schmoat.

The fingers of his flesh hand trail along the ridges before stopping to hold onto your waist, his thumb brushing over the raised scales that arch over your hips. The metal digits of the other flex, relieving some of the pressure against your throat.

"вы действительно здесь," he says, confused and surprised by his own words. He swallows hard, then lets you go completely. You cough, dissolving the spiracles and repairing the damage to your windpipe.

Cold blue eyes fix on yours and you try your hardest to smile, to remain _non-threatening_ as he works through the opening you've provided.

"Я знаю тебя."

"Yes," you cough again, clearing your throat. The sparring session with Summers had you exhausted _before_ you'd rushed downtown, then you'd had to provide a demonstration for Stark, and finally the thorax trick had cost what little energy you'd left in reserve. If you push much further, your body will start cannibalizing itself to remain functional.

"Are—" He swallows again, shakes his head and takes a few more steps away from you. "Are you with them?"

"Need you to be more specific," you tell him, staying exactly where he put you against the wall.

"HYDRA. Pierce. Are you my handler?" he asks, voice soft, submissive, eyes darting to the side as he shrinks in on himself. "I shouldn't have—I'm_sorry_. I didn't know. They didn't tell me you were coming."

"I'm not your handler, and I'm not with HYDRA," you tell him.

"You're here to put me down," he says with a grim acceptance that makes your chest ache. "I failed my mission."

"No, I'm not going to hurt you at all. What's the last thing you remember?"

He blinks, and then shakes his head.

"I woke up in the lab. They were trying to—" he looks to his left, at his arm, and cringes. "I don't want to kill people anymore."

"Do you know who you are? Your name?"

"I—no. I did. I had a name, once. But it's gone."

Slowly, _so slowly_, you sink down onto the floor, drawing your knees up and resting your arms across them. Barnes watches you, wary, then does the same.

"Everything I'm about to tell you is true," you start, licking your lips. "And it's a long story, so bear with me, okay?"

"Okay," he breathes, ducking his head down and covering the back of his skull with his hands, as if he expects to be hit.

While he stares at the floor between his feet, you recount everything you know about his life story, then about Rogers ambushing you after your meeting with Fury, about Brooklyn, and Queens, and the series of events within the Tower that lead to this.

"You're not in a HYDRA lab, James. You're in New York, and you're _safe_. No one is trying to hurt you."

He squints and looks at you, really _looks_. Quietly, he says your name, blinks, and comes back to himself with a sharp intake of breath.

You scoot forward and pin him before he manages to freak out all over again.

"It's okay, take deep breaths, relax," you repeat over and over, curling yourself around him as if that will somehow insulate him from his own terror.

"Oh Christ," he swears, "Please tell me I didn't hurt anyone."

"Steve told me you managed to warn them just before you went away," you tell him. "That's how Tony got his suit on in time. You did good, Sergeant."

"They'll lock me up," he gasps against you. "Steve stuck his neck out for me and I fuckin' blew it."

"Stop that," you soothe, petting his hair and prying his fingers away from where they're digging into his scalp. "Do you really think any of them agreed to bring you here without knowing how bad it could get? Tony Stark is a lot of things, but he's not an idiot."

"Jesus Christ," he swears again, rocking on the floor and clutching at your arms. "I coulda killed them both."

"But you didn't. They handled it and told me to come down right away. Here I am, and here we are. It's over, you're in control again."

"Where's Steve?" he asks. "I gotta talk to him. I gotta—"

The inner door cycles open and Rogers steps in, hands out at his sides.

"Buck?"

"Fuck, Steve, m'sorry. I didn't—"

"Hey, no, it's okay," Steve tells him, slowly crossing the room to join the two of you on the floor. "It's just stuff, Bucky. Stark having his lab trashed is practically a weekly occurrence around here."

"Is he mad?"

"He's not happy," Steve laughs, throwing his friend a lopsided smile. "But I told him to send me the bill. Don't worry about it."

"This isn't gonna work," Barnes says, looking between you and Rogers. "I'm too—they took too much _out_. I'd do it myself, but they won't let me. Not then, not now. I need you—" He releases his hold on you to grab Rogers by his shirt. "You gotta do it, Steve."

"Do what?" he asks, brow furrowed. "What're you talking about?"

"Put me down," Barnes gasps. "There's not enough left, they took it all out. Don't you get it? I'm already—"

"That's enough," you hiss, pressing both hands against either side of his face. "You listen to me, James Buchanan Barnes, you don't get to _quit_ just because this turned out to be harder than you'd like. And you sure as shit don't get to ask your best friend to put a bullet in you as if he'd be doing you a favor."

He stares, eyes wide and full of fear.

"Please," he begs. "I can't do this."

"Find a way," you insist, curling your fingers into his hair and tugging gently.

"M'tired," he says, eyes drifting shut. "So goddamn tired."

"I know, Buck," Steve answers, looking like he's about to cry himself. "Let's get you back to the apartment. Tony's people need to get up here to start the clean-up anyway."

"Okay," Barnes says, shifting back onto his knees. "Whatever you say, Steve."

Just like in Brooklyn, and later in Queens, you take Barnes' weight on one side while Rogers takes the other. Slung between the two of you, you make it into the airlock. JARVIS doesn't need to be prompted to cycle the outer door open.

Natasha and Wilson are waiting on the other side, along with another man you haven't been introduced to yet. He's got a thigh-holster, like Nat, but seems far less comfortable sharing space with Barnes. Or maybe it's _you_. Hard to tell with people, sometimes.

"Clint," Steve says with a nod. "Where's Stark?"

"Pep convinced him to stay upstairs until we've got everyone stowed away," the man—Clint—replies. "You okay, buddy?" he asks, tilting his head toward Barnes.

"Fuck off, Barton," Bucky growls.

The other man just laughs.

"You still sore about that dart game?" he asks, shaking his head. "I'll give you the five bucks back if it'll make you feel better."

"Not now, Clint," Steve warns, then motions with a toss of his head to move out. "Let's go home."

* * *

Barnes is silent as you and Steve get him cleaned up once you reach their shared apartment. Steve had told you it was an "adjoining suite," like yours and Ana's, but it's really just one huge space with bedrooms on opposite sides, the common room, kitchen, and a small home gym set squarely in the middle.

It'd be cute, you think, if the entire situation weren't so damned tragic.

"I can do it myself," Barnes tells you, wrenching his arm away to pull his torn shirt up over his head. You hand him a replacement, just a plain white tee, but not before doing a cursory check to make sure he isn't too badly banged up. A little black-and-blue, but no open wounds, and nothing that would indicate internal damage.

Steve steps out to go talk with Stark upstairs, leaving you to get Barnes squared away.

"I'm sorry I didn't get down here earlier," you tell him, turning around as he shucks his pants off. "You told me you needed the help and I wasn't hearing you."

"Not your fault," he grunts. "You're not my Ma."

"I know that," you reply, turning your head slightly so he can see your profile. "But I feel like this is—at least partially—my fault."

"How do you figure?" he asks, walking to his closet after pulling on a clean pair of sweatpants.

"What I said, yesterday, about you not holding up your end of our bargain. Was anything that happened today—you going to Stark to talk about your arm—because you thought I was going to stay away if you didn't?"

He freezes in front of the open closet, then slowly lets out the breath he'd been holding.

"I wanted to see you," he says, still staring straight ahead. "And you were right. I wasn't giving this a chance. I figured dumping as much information in Stark's lap as possible would help speed things up. My arm—it's not working right. Needs a tech. Maintenance."

"And there's the killswitch," you remind him, brain skipping right over the _I wanted to see you_ bit, because those words birthed a whole swarm of butterflies in your stomach and what the _hell_ does that mean, anyway?

"That too," he says, nodding. "But mostly, I wanted to see you."

"Barnes—"

"I dream about you," he admits, finally turning to look in your direction. "When I don't dream about _them_, about everything else that happened."

"I'm sorry," you tell him, crossing some of the distance between you. "What Ana and I did... I can't be sure that we didn't leave something behind. But I can get someone to check, and we can fix it if—"

"No," he cuts you off. "No, please don't. I can't—I _need_ you there. Here, too."

"I can't stay," you tell him, as gently as you can. "But I'll be here as often as I can, provided Stark doesn't revoke my guest status."

"He won't," Barnes says. "Steve will make sure of it."

"Okay," you answer slowly. "Look, you finish getting cleaned up and I'll go put the kettle on."

You turn and start walking out of the room, but are stopped by his hand on your shoulder. He turns you, easy as anything, and wraps his arms around your waist, tucking his head against yours.

"You're really here?" he asks, and despite yourself, you hug him back, planting a chaste kiss against his temple.

"I'm really here."

"Good," he says. "I missed you."

Oh, _hell_.

"I missed you too, Barnes."


	12. Chapter 12

"Seeking to forget makes exile all the longer; the secret of redemption lies in remembrance."

-Richard von Wiezsaecker

* * *

Gradually, Barnes pulls you closer to him until your cheek is pressed against his chest. You can hear his heart beating beneath his ribs; unable to stop a secret smile at the slightly elevated '_thump-thump!_'

However, the proximity_ does_ remind you that you're still mostly naked, and with your energy flagging, it's only a matter of time before the scales and thick leathery plates covering your more delicate bits become too much to maintain.

You give him one last squeeze around his middle before pulling back. He looks down, puzzled and disappointed, something like a whine slipping past his lips.

"Sorry," you apologize. "But I should probably put some clothes on. People might start to _talk._"

He huffs and lets you go completely, stalking over to his dresser and dragging one of the drawers open roughly.

"You're gonna be swimming in my clothes," he says, and his voice has a brittle, rough quality you haven't heard before.

"That's all right," you answer, stepping up behind him to accept whatever is offered. "It's just for the time being. Ms. Potts had my bag dropped off in one of the guest suites a few floors down; I'll change later."

He grunts and hands you a t-shirt (good lord, it _smells_ like him), and sweatpants. You get yourself sorted, tying off the bottom of the shirt to keep it from swallowing you. Unprompted, he reaches out and tugs the waistband of the sweats up higher on your hips.

"Need a belt," he murmurs.

"I can tie them off, same as the top," you shrug, looking down as you do just that. The result isn't pretty, but it's better than wrapping yourself in a sheet or prancing about skyclad and scandalous.

He leans back against the dresser, staring first at the floor and then over your shoulder at the wall of floor-to-ceiling windows that look out over the city.

"Sleepy?" you ask, breaking the silence and motioning to the perfectly made bed behind you. You have a sneaking suspicion he hasn't slept in it once.

"No," he answers with a slight shake of his head. "I don't really sleep so much as switch off for a few hours."

"You slept fine in Brooklyn," you counter, once again irritated by his habit of talking about himself like he's a _thing_ and not a person.

"You drugged me," he points out. "And I was down a few pints of blood."

You roll your eyes and stick your tongue out at him, which is totally an adult response and not at all juvenile. "Right. Hungry then?"

He tenses and swallows hard but doesn't answer.

"Barnes… _Are you hungry?" _you repeat. "It's okay if you are. I mean, not _okay_, you shouldn't be skipping meals or—It's okay if you _admit _that you're hungry, is what I meant."

He gives a curt nod, and you can see his jaw working as if he's trying to answer but can't.

"No punishment is coming," you remind him, taking a step forward and reaching out to touch his arm; grounding him in _this_ time and _this_ place, and not wherever his mind is wandering off to.

"I know," he wheezes. "I know you wouldn't—" He slams his metal fist into the dresser behind him, cracking the polished veneer. "I just _can't_sometimes. Like I still have that fucking muzzle on."

"C'mon," you tilt your head at the door. "I'll make you sandwich or something. Think you can keep that down?"

"Don't know," he sighs, looking at the damage he's done to Stark's fancy furniture. "They've had me on liquids, mostly."

You decline to note that he hasn't been consuming those as directed either, forgoing your instinct to scold a disobedient patient.

"Well, the doctor in me thinks we should stick to the nutritional plan that's been designed for you, but the very hungry _mutant_ in me wants a goddamn sandwich. Let's call it an 'experimental deviation from established protocols' and see what happens, yeah?"

"Okay," he says, and follows you out of his bedroom, through the common area and into the kitchen. He continues to track your movements, eventually taking a seat on one of the barstools pushed up against the island.

If you had the time, you'd make bookmaker sandwiches because they are _amazing_ and Barnes needs to reestablish a positive relationship with food. He's sitting at the island, stiff and visibly anxious, like you're prepping him for dental surgery and not fixing him your version of a very generous midnight snack.

"You like horseradish?" you ask, sucking a glob of the stuff off of your thumb, a pile of condiments, fresh (gourmet) cold cuts, cheese, crusty bread, and veggies spread out on the granite countertop.

"Maybe. I—I don't remember, honestly. Even_ before_, we didn't eat like people do today."

"How do you mean?" you turn, making eye contact before resuming to the task at hand.

"You have an abundance of everything, for starters," he tells you, tracing patterns on the surface of the island before realizing what he's doing and tucking his metal arm away, out of sight. "I mean, me an' Stevie were never starving or nothing, but we couldn't have imagined a pantry stocked like _this_."

"Did you have a favorite meal?" you ask. "Back then?"

"Steve's Ma made oxtail soup sometimes," he answers. "Things were tight in the '30s. We ate a lot of vegetables and beans."

"Great Depression," you nod, stacking slices of roast beef on bread smeared with horseradish, chopped shallots and Fresno chili peppers, parsley, watercress, and sharp white cheddar. You pull a knife free from its block, catching the way his eyes widen slightly before he forces himself to relax, and cut each sandwich in half.

"Pepper is mild," you tell him, passing him a plate and glass of water. "If it's too hot, I can make you something else."

"Never had much spicy food," he says, studying the meal set in front of him. "Not that I can recall, anyway."

"It's not for everyone," you concede. "The horseradish is probably the real wild card, though."

You hop up onto the counter, feet dangling just above the floor, and take a bite. The bread isn't the slightest bit stale, despite having probably been made early yesterday morning, and the beef is perfectly seasoned, tender, and _delicious_.

"Need to ask Stark who his butcher is," you mutter, holding your hand in front of your mouth to prevent giving Barnes a show. "I think I could eat an entire cow's worth."

"Now who's not addressing their hunger appropriately?" Barnes asks, opening his mouth to take his first bite before freezing. He hovers like that for a long moment, and then his teeth snap shut with an audible _'click!'_

"What-?" you slide off the counter, concerned as he exhales hard through his nose, staring at the sandwich like it's going to attack him. His eyes dart to yours and there's a flash of fear in them, swiftly supplanted by frustration.

"Conditioning," you hiss, padding around the island to run your hand up his metal arm. You can feel the strain there, the barely contained tremble. "What do you need me to do?"

"Permission," he gasps, face flushing with embarrassment.

"Eat, Barnes," you reply immediately, and he crams the sandwich into his mouth so fast you're afraid he'll choke. "Whoa, whoa! Easy!"

He jerks away, pulling the other half of his meal as far from you as he can, as if you're going to take it away from him. Still, his eyes are telegraphing _fear_, not anger, and you're fairly sure that if his mouth wasn't full of meat and bread, he'd be begging you to just let him eat, _please_.

"Chew," you order. "Swallow what's in your mouth."

He winces but does as you've instructed, slowly returning the plate back to the counter.

"S-sorry," he says when he's able to speak again. "I don't know why—"

"Yes you do," you tell him, smoothing a hand down the back of his head, dragging your fingers through his hair. "We both do, and it's not okay, but it's not your fault either. You need to know that."

"I do," he sighs, leaning back into your touch. "When you're here to remind me."

Something in your throat catches and you have to take a moment to steady yourself.

"Eat your sandwich, Barnes," you tell him. "_Slowly, _this time. And if you want more, I'll make you more."

He nods and starts on the second half.

* * *

Barnes is halfway through his third sandwich when Steve returns from his impromptu meeting with Stark upstairs. He waves to both of you and takes a seat next to Bucky at the kitchen island.

"That looks good, Buck," he says, bright blue eyes glancing in your direction for a moment. "What is it?"

"Sandwich," Barnes answers with a mouthful of food.

"Roast beef with horseradish and various fixings," you add. "I'd offer to make you one, but _someone_ has eaten all the meat."

Steve laughs.

"And _most_ of the horseradish."

"It's good!" Barnes defends, wiping his hands on his pants until you toss a dish cloth at him. "Have you tried it?" he asks Rogers.

"Sandwiches?"

"Horseradish. I don't think we ever had it when we were kids, but I thought you might remember different."

"It's all right, I guess," Steve says, still smiling. "And no, I don't think we did either. Most exotic thing on our kitchen table was spaghetti."

"That's _tragic_," you sigh. "I don't know if I could live without pork buns."

"Pork _what_?" Barnes asks, looking up at you from his clean plate.

"Oh my god, you're going to make me cry."

He smiles and you reach over the island to wipe crumbs and a smear of sauce from his chin. You can see Steve watching you intently out of the corner of your eye, curious, but you play the entire thing off as if it were nothing (because it's _not_, obviously, and because if it _were_ that would be the worst idea ever).

Barnes just smiles a bit wider and pushes his plate forward.

"Oh no," you waggle a finger. "I don't do dishes if I did the cooking."

He pouts and looks to Steve for support, but his friend leaves him thoroughly in the cold.

"Lady has a point, Buck."

You vacate the kitchen while Barnes cleans up the mess, taking a seat on the living room couch with Rogers.

"This is the best I've seen him all week," Steve tells you, voice pitched low. "You even got him to eat."

"He was hungry," you explain. "But he's still having a hard time doing anything about it. It seems to help if you give him permission, or frame the suggestion as a command. It's shitty, but—"

"We've been doing that," he interrupts, glancing furtively behind him where his friend is holding his flesh hand under the faucet, testing the temperature of the water. "He either ignores us or locks himself in his room, which is just another way to ignore us."

"I don't know then," you huff.

"Natasha thinks he's imprinted on you," Rogers continues, picking up the nearby remote and turning the massive flat screen TV on.

"He's not a _duckling_," you scowl. "Why would she think that?"

"It's part of the programming. They'd take him out of cryo, get him functional again, and then start plugging his head full of mission details. Last step before launching the op was to have him_ imprint_ on his handler."

You pull back slightly, blinking rapidly and trying to let the information sink in.

"He believes _I'm_ his handler?"

Steve shrugs. "It's what Natasha thinks, and she knows a lot about this stuff. The KGB didn't do to her what HYDRA did to him, but the process was close enough that she can be counted on as a reliable firsthand source."

"I can't be—Steve, that _can't_ be how this works," you tell him. "I am not going to play a part that HYDRA designed."

"We may not have a choice," he says, and you know he's not happy about it either. "You're the one he wants."

"But—" you groan and slump against the couch. "He's your best friend. You were his commanding officer; if anyone is best suited to do this, it'd be—"

"That's not how it was with us," he interrupts, shaking his head and thumbing the volume up on the TV. "Bucky was always the one looking out for me, pulling my ass out of the fire, finishing the fights I couldn't. In the Army, I may have outranked him, but I never commanded him to do anything. Wouldn't even know _how_."

"Oh, my sweet, giddy aunt," you protest weakly, scrubbing your hand across your face.

"What'd you do?" Barnes asks, approaching the couch, apparently having caught your most recent complaint despite the noise provided by the TV.

"I didn't—" you start, but Barnes waves you off.

"Not you," he says, staring at Rogers. "_You_."

"We were just talking," Steve says, trying to sound as nonchalant as possible and failing _miserably._

"Don't," you warn. "Let's not start with the obfuscation and double-talk. You're terrible at it anyway."

"What he said upset you," Barnes growls. "Tell me. Whatever it is—Am I being kicked out?"

"No," Steve assures him. "You broke a few tables and computer monitors, Buck. I know you've never been to one of Tony's parties, but what happened earlier today is nothing compared to—"

"Then what _did_ you say that got her—" and Barnes points emphatically in your direction—"so upset?"

"There's a theory floating around," you tell him. "About why you do better when I'm here. Natasha believes—and Rogers is in agreement—that your programming is still active enough that you're subconsciously looking for a handler."

"And you're it?" he asks, walking around to the other side of the couch and taking a seat on the footrest in front of you.

"It's just a theory," you offer lamely.

"I wouldn't mind if you were," he says, looking everywhere except at you. "But you already knew that."

"She's uncomfortable with the idea," Rogers pipes up. "But not because of _you_."

"Because of them," Barnes nods. "Because they're the ones who made that necessary."

"Buck…"

"No," he says, mouth pressed into a thin line. "It's a good point. Probably true, even. They took everything else from me, so why not that?"

"Why not _what_?" you ask, reaching forward to grab his metal hand where its digging into the skin of its flesh counterpart. He pulls away from you, raising his chin defiantly.

"You're not my fuckin' _handler_," he spits. "I want you here. Me. Just me. Those motherfuckers have nothing to do with it. I won't—they don't get this too. Not _you_."

"We can't know that for sure," Rogers presses. "You can't deny that you listen to her when you're happy to disregard everyone else, even when we're sayin' the same thing."

"I told you," Barnes says, pushing back from the footstool and getting in Steve's face. "I _told_ you that she keeps the red out, the _noise_. Like I'm standing on shifting sand and then she's here and everything is solid again."

"It's okay," you tell him, looking up from your seat on the couch. "Whichever it is, _it's okay_. It could be that Natasha and Steve are right, or that_you're_ right, or that I'm right and something of me was left behind when Ana pulled me out of your head. Maybe it's all three. Maybe it's something we haven't considered. What does the reason matter? I'm here, aren't I?"

Barnes gapes at you, slowly stepping back out of Steve's personal space.

"It matters," he says quietly. "To me."

"Do I look like I'm going anywhere?" you ask, motioning for him to sit next to you on the couch. He hangs his head a bit and slowly settles at the very edge of the cushion, careful to maintain several inches of space between you.

"I'm sorry, Buck," Steve offers. "I shouldn't have said anything."

Barnes shrugs. "It's a solid theory," he rasps. "Happens to be _wrong_, but I can't deny it makes sense."

The three of you sit there like that for almost 15 minutes before you drum up the courage to speak again.

"You were upstairs for a while," you say to Steve. "Anything worth sharing come up? Aside from Barnes _not_ being evicted, of course."

"Uh, yeah, actually," Rogers says, leaning forward and bracing his arms against his knees. "Something is going on with your arm, Bucky."

"No shit."

"And JARVIS has been keeping track of every anomaly related to it since you stepped foot inside the Tower. The time between incidents is getting shorter every day. Tony thinks that your arm wasn't meant to be used on a day-to-day basis or over long periods of time. It was designed and calibrated for combat, and none of your missions stretched beyond a few days. A week, at most."

Barnes' knee begins to bounce and he ducks his head lower, both hands pressed against his forehead, partially covering his eyes like a visor. You scoot closer so that your shoulders are touching.

"Keep talkin'," he manages, and you catch a sliver of blue-grey iris from between his fingers as he peeks over at you.

"It's wearing out. The internal mechanisms are breaking down without maintenance in addition to the fact that they probably weren't designed for daily wear-and-tear in the first place. You've been in some major fights since you last went under, too."

"Don't—_nngh. _Don't flatter yourself, Rogers."

"We gotta take a look at it, Buck. You have to let Stark figure out what's going on. He's pretty sure it has to come off completely, but first we need to address the elephant in the room."

"Not me this time," you whisper to Barnes, nudging his shoulder with your own. "The literal elephant, that is."

His answering smirk is weak and brief, but it's real.

"The killswitch you told us about in Brooklyn," Steve continues. "If it goes off—"

"People will get hurt," Barnes finishes, nodding.

"_You_. You will get hurt," Rogers corrects. "We worried about _you_, ya meatball."

Barnes leans all the way forward, bending himself nearly in half and crosses both arms over the back of his head.

"Hey, no," you shush, gentling your hand along the arch of his spine. "This isn't going to be like before."

He shudders, full-bodied, and Steve moves down on the couch, buttressing his friend on the other side.

"Don't let me feel it," Barnes pants. "When he cuts it off, don't—"

"Jesus, Bucky, that's not how this is gonna go," Steve says, wrapping his arm over Barnes' back and tugging him closer. "Stark's gonna do it the right way, not like they did. You think I'd let him touch you if I suspected otherwise?"

"W-when?"

"Tomorrow, ideally. Depends on how you feel and on whether or not Dr. Banner gives this the green light."

"You'll stay?" Barnes asks, turning his head to look at you through the dark curtain of his hair.

"Of course," you assure him. "I'll be here through the entire procedure. Classes start late on Monday, so I don't have to leave until that morning. And—" you hesitate, briefly questioning just how much of your time you want to commit to this.

"And?" Barnes prompts.

"And we're getting close to end-of-term. A lot of the kids board on campus over the summer, but aside from some remedial tutoring and _team business_, I can be here as often as you like."

"No you can't," he sighs, sitting back up a bit.

"Why not?"

"Because I'd want you here all the time."

* * *

Barnes remains quiet and introspective for a long time after, almost entirely unresponsive as you and Steve try to coax out an opinion on what movie to watch.

You're scrolling through their playlist history, slightly disturbed by the sheer volume of cartoons and 1950s Westerns (_eugh_), before finally finding what you'd been looking for with the aid of the Search function.

"_The Fifth Element?_" Steve asks, uncertain. You get the feeling that most modern movies make him uncomfortable, what with all the references he has no context for, the special effects, the booming soundtracks, the _sex_… "What's it about?"

"Mostly Milla Jovovich being a total BAMF."

"I understood some of those words," he nods, sitting back on the couch, but not before shooting Barnes another worried look.

"Hey," you prod, tugging on Barnes' good shoulder. He allows himself to be re-positioned on the couch, eventually settling against you with a dazed, thoroughly exhausted look on his face. "It's all right if you fall asleep."

He nods and lets his eyes drift shut. Steve grabs a _very_ soft looking, cream-colored afghan from a nearby settee and drapes it over his friend, making sure his bare feet are covered as well.

"You ready for this, Rogers?" you ask as the movie starts to play.

"Nope," he says. "But that's kinda been the story of my life, so…"

Barnes snorts, the warm puff of air raising goosebumps on your neck.

"Thought you were sleepin', jerk," Steve grumbles.

"With you doin' all that jaw-jackin'? Not likely. Shaddap and watch the movie, punk."

So you do, all three of you, from start to finish, and then a second time because they both _love_ it.

See? You always did have good taste.


	13. Chapter 13

"Seeking to forget makes exile all the longer; the secret of redemption lies in remembrance.

-Richard von Wiezsaecker

* * *

"This is highly irregular," the petite Asian woman sitting across from you at the conference table observes, swiping through some of the medical reports that JARVIS has queued up for review. "The patient is too unstable to qualify as a surgical candidate."

She pauses and looks around the table, making eye contact with each person gathered to consult on Barnes' case.

"I cannot recommend any further medical action until he is—"

"Dr. Cho," Banner interrupts, waving a hand and dismissing the semi-transparent graphs floating in front of his face. "We know he's unstable, but his condition is deteriorating regardless of any stabilizing measures we take. Surgery is the only viable way to slow—to hopefully _stop_—that downward trajectory."

"JARVIS," Tony drawls, swiveling in his chair at the head of the table. "Bring up the charts."

"Yes, Sir," the AI replies, and a series of animated graphs flicker to life in the center of the table. JARVIS explains what each marker represents; electrical surges, distinct mood swings, uncontrolled movements, epileptic episodes, altered speech patterns, and moments of extreme paranoia, aggression, or fear. The X-axis only spreads over the course of the week, but stretched out long enough, you can see how each point groups around the same time, and that the distance between activity clusters is growing shorter and shorter.

"I knew it was bad," you breathe, leaning forward to manipulate the projection, blowing out the proportions to see more the detailed information listed alongside each point. "But not this bad."

"Sergeant Barnes is quite adept at hiding his symptoms," JARVIS intones. "However, his vital signs still respond as expected during each event. I was tasked with tracking this data the moment he arrived at the Tower."

"And you expect these symptoms to vanish once the prosthesis is removed?" Dr. Cho asks. "Do we consider HYDRA capable of designing a device that would affect someone like this? According to your own files, it was grafted on in the 1940s."

"As to your first question; no, probably not. He'll need a solid pain management program, as well as psychological support for the foreseeable future, physical therapy, and reconstructive surgery. As to the second; Dr. Zola was one of the most brilliant minds of his generation," Banner says. "Brilliant _and_ sadistic."

"Howard never trusted him," Tony chimes in. "Project Paperclip seemed like too much of a compromise, too good a deal for the bad guys. He went ballistic when that little Swedish fish dropped off the grid. Almost got himself kicked out of the SSR."

"Some of the reports in that file also show a timeline of upgrades and retrofits performed long after the initial procedure. After each freeze and defrost cycle, it was noted that the effectiveness of the mind wipes seemed to decrease dramatically," you add. "Towards the end, they often had a matter of days before he'd start to remember things."

"An effect of the serum?"

"Possibly. He heals much faster than an un-augmented human, so perhaps over the years his body simply adapted to the damage being done to it, learning how to repair itself more efficiently," you suggest.

"Look, most of this is going to be done with wrenches and bolt-cutters," Tony sighs, dismissing all of JARVIS' holograms. "Not _literally_," he huffs, catching the horrified look you've shot him. "We need a qualified physician standing by to consult and supervise, which is where you come in, Doc."

"As I said—" Dr. Cho starts, and you can tell by her tone that she's going to decline again.

"Please," you interrupt. "He's accepted the risks—we all have—but if it doesn't come off, it _will_ kill him."

She sighs and studies you for a long time.

"You're not a doctor, or an Avenger," she finally says. "Why are you here, exactly?"

"She's the one who pulled him out," Tony answers. "And when he goes full T-1000 and rips my lab apart, she's the only one he listens to, which must _really_ burn Cap up. Bet that's not how he saw this going _at all_."

You stare Stark down and let him see the flash in your eyes.

"Oh c'mon, you gotta admit, it's a little _Brokeback_ between those two."

"You're awful," you tell him, looking away.

"That's not how you pronounce hilarious."

"Our young friend does have a medical background," Banner cuts in, pushing his glasses back up the bridge of his nose. "Pre-med at Northwestern, followed by four years at Johns Hopkins for medical school. So there's a shared professional vocabulary at the very least."

He knits his fingers together and inclines his head in your direction.

"I spoke with your colleague in Westchester—Dr. McCoy? He accepted a few blood samples and sent back a chemical and metabolic spectrum analysis that was very useful in getting a better idea of how to anesthetize Sergeant Barnes more effectively. He spoke highly of you."

"Hank is a brilliant scientist and a better friend than I deserve," you concede. "He was eager to help."

"Dr. McCoy is your mentor?" Dr. Cho asks, jaw slack. "No one has seen him in years—"

"He's been ill, but still hard at work," you deflect. "His guidance, along with that of Dr. Grey, Dr. MacTaggert, and Professor Xavier—"

"_Charles_ Xavier?" she asks, sitting up in her chair as if she's been electrocuted. "_The_ Charles Xavier?"

"The only one I know of," you shrug, feeling a bit guilty for resorting to name-dropping in order to get what you want. _Manipulative little shit_, indeed.

"Who_ are_ you?" she asks, leaning over the table and practically salivating with curiosity.

"Trust me, Doc," Tony sighs. "You _really_ don't want to ask her that."

* * *

"Hey," you call softly, slipping into Barnes' bedroom. He's curled up on the floor at the foot of the bed, all of the blankets stripped from the mattress and gathered around him like a nest.

"Time already?" he asks, looking at you from the corners of his eyes.

"Almost," you nod. "Steve said you were sleeping."

He snorts and sits up against the footboard, dropping his head back against it.

"Steve sees what he wants to see."

"He worries," you offer as explanation, taking a seat on the corner of the bare mattress. "Dr. Cho and Dr. Banner are working with the anesthesiologist to get everything ready. Stark wanted me to ask if you thought another scan of your arm might be possible."

Barnes curls his fist and pulls his mechanical arm closer against his chest.

"I _hate_ it," he says, his voice barely above a whisper. "What's he need to see inside it for? Just cut the fucking thing off—"

"You know that's not what we're going to do, James," you tell him, reaching down and squeezing his metal shoulder, unsure of just how much he can feel through the plates. "The more information he has going in, the faster we can get this over with. No one's done a procedure like this since—"

"Since HYDRA put it on. Sliced off _my_ arm and put this one in its place. You know I was awake when they did it? When they cut what was left of mine away with a little electric saw. I swear I can still smell the stink from the bone burning up."

You duck your head and vehemently deny the sting in your eyes, the clutch of your throat as you try to swallow.

"I—" you cough, banishing the tremor in your voice—"I have this." You show him the small device that will allow JARVIS to map the arm and create a 3D model for Tony to study. "It won't hurt. Just a little flashing light and then we're done. With this part, at least."

He pushes himself to his feet, kicking the blankets away and takes a seat next to you on the bed.

"What do you need me to do?" he asks.

"Just hold your arm out, straight as you can, and stay still for a few seconds," you answer. "JARVIS?"

"Yes, madam."

"Data incoming," you tell the A.I. "Ready?"

"Always, madam. Please proceed."

You press a button, and several beams of bright green light project from one end of the scanner like a spider web. They lock onto the arm and begin to graph the exterior. A moment later, the beams switch to red and repeat the scan. Finally, they flicker to blue and cycle through the process one last time.

"Digital recreation complete. Your cooperation is appreciated, Sergeant Barnes."

"Uh, you're welcome," he answers, glancing up at the ceiling much the same way you do when conversing with the AI.

"See? That wasn't so bad," you tell him, pocketing the scanner. "Anything you want to talk about regarding the procedure?"

"A million things," he breathes. "But I don't think knowing more is gonna help me get through it. Ignorance is bliss, y'know?"

"Sometimes."

"Will I feel it?"

"We're going to have you as numb as possible," you tell him. "But you still have limits to the chemical stresses your heart and brain can take, even with an enhanced metabolism. I can't guarantee you won't feel anything, but we'll minimize your pain as much as we can without putting your life at risk."

He nods and chews on his bottom lip, brow furrowed.

"What are the—the _steps_?"

"Identifying and removing the killswitch is our priority as it poses the most immediate threat to your life. Stark will have a better idea of what we're dealing with once he reviews the scan we just provided."

"Whatever it is, it'll be painful," he says, hunching in on himself. "That's what they'd go with. One last punishment for disobeying or failing to be useful."

"Regardless, we'll deal with it and you'll be _fine,_" you assure him. "Once the killswitch is neutralized, Stark will make his final analysis on how best to remove the arm. Right now, he believes he should be able to do that without too much difficulty. Your files mention new versions being fitted and tested as HYDRA's technological prowess progressed."

"I know," he says, nostrils flaring and his eyes going a bit wide. "I remember."

"How much of your time with them has come back?"

He looks sidelong at you and then quickly away when you meet his gaze.

"Too much."

"You can talk to me," you tell him, reaching out and touching the middle of his back with the pads of your fingers. "If you want. About anything. I understand you don't like the psychologist Stark found for you—"

"You don't need any of this shit in your head," he argues. "And I can deal with it on my own."

"And by 'deal with it,' you mean—what? Ignore it; pretend it doesn't bother you; put on an act so that people leave you alone?"

"Ideally."

"That's _stupid_, Barnes," you scold. "Don't let the ignorance your generation had for psychology tamper with your recovery. 'Suck it up and be a man about it,' isn't an acceptable coping strategy."

"That's the problem with _your_ generation," he snaps. "You people talk and talk and _talk_ about every goddamn thing and tell yourselves that's better, but all it does is make people feel _worse_."

"So does lancing a festering wound," you counter. "You can curse the doctor, and curse the needle, and curse the pain that follows, but it's the_infection_ that deserves your anger. Your brain is psychologically _septic_, Barnes. Carry on with your make believe, but in the end, _you'll_ be the one left holding the bag when it all falls apart."

"You can be a real bitch sometimes, you know that?"

"I'm told it's one of the more charming aspects of my personality. Fume all you want. The offer still stands; if you want to talk, you know how to find me."

You stand up from the bed and head towards the door.

"Where are you going?" he asks, suddenly fearful. The look in his eyes when you turn to answer causes the harsh words dancing on your tongue to shrivel and die.

"I need to scrub up," you tell him. "Someone should be by shortly to collect you."

He nods once and the slides back down onto the floor, gathering up his blankets and burying himself in their warmth.

"Barnes…"

Pale blue eyes peer out at you, half-hidden behind his hair.

"It's going to be okay."

He doesn't answer, instead looking away towards the windows and the bright sky beyond the glass.

* * *

"Tell me this is going to work," Steve demands, pacing in the waiting area just outside the surgical theatre. He's there with Natasha and Sam, both of whom hang back out of immediate earshot.

"It's a good plan," you tell him instead. "And we don't really have a choice. Based on the current rate of decay we've witnessed, JARVIS estimates a complete system failure by Tuesday at the latest."

"We need to be sure," the super-soldier insists, hands planted on his hips. "We just got him back, I can't—"

"Steve," you cut him off. "We have some of the best scientific and medical minds consulting on this. I am confident that everything will go smoothly, and that by the end of the day, Barnes will be in a recovery room, minus one very bothersome and life-threatening cybernetic arm. But there are no guarantees. I won't make a promise I can't keep, and I won't lie to you just to spare your feelings."

"Hey," Tony barks, popping his head out of the prep room, already dressed in a pale yellow surgical gown. "That's enough chit chat out of you. Red October won't let the _actual_ doctors stick him with a needle until you're in there. So get your ass in gear, and get scrubbed up."

"Right," you answer, patting Steve apologetically on the arm. "I'll have one of the nurses come out every 15 minutes or so to keep you updated."

"Talk him through what they're doing," Natasha suggests, apparently possessing much better hearing than you'd previously assumed. "It might help. Did for me after Clint brought me in."

"He stayed with you?"

She nods and fingers the charm—an arrow?—on the chain around her neck.

"S.H.I.E.L.D.'s medics tried to undo some of the procedures implemented by the Red Room program. It was meant as a gesture, I guess. Didn't always work, but I appreciated the effort."

You wrinkle your brow at the vagaries in her confession and wonder if that's a byproduct of being a spy, or a reluctance to talk about something personal and probably painful.

"I'll keep that in mind," you tell her.

"We'll be out here if you need us," Wilson adds, sauntering forward, a cup of steaming coffee clutched in his hands. "You tell him that, okay? It'll mean something to know that there are people waiting for him on the other side of this."

"I will."

"Don't make me stop this car," Tony calls from behind the door.

Natasha leads Steve back to one of the chairs in the waiting room, and Sam presses the cup of coffee into his hands.

"Go," Steve says, staring at his lap. "We'll see you in a few hours."

* * *

"Doing okay so far?" you ask, your voice muffled behind the surgical mask covering your mouth and nose.

Barnes looks up at you from the table, bare from the waist up, the bionic arm stretched out on a cradle that allows Stark as much access as possible.

"Define _okay_," he slurs, blinking slowly and licking his lips. "Best I've felt in _years_, doll."

"Already up to pet names," Tony chuckles, carefully arranging all of his tools on the tray set within easy reach. "Next thing you know, you two will be—how did they say it in your day, Sergeant? _Making time_? Making time behind the woodshed."

"We don't have a woodshed, Sir," JARVIS chimes in.

"It was a joke, buddy," Stark sighs, adjusting his mask. "My comedic genius remains unappreciated in my time."

"Nah," Barnes shakes his head slowly from side-to-side. "She's not interested. Fuckin'… fuckin' _look at me_."

"Stop antagonizing him," you hiss at Tony, pressing against Barnes' chest as he—once again—tries to sit up.

"We _are_ on a tight schedule, here," Banner reminds everyone, standing next to the anesthesiologist, Dr. Sasooli, and watching the monitors tracking Barnes' vitals. Dr. Cho is watching the entire procedure from the observation deck, speaking with Banner and Sasooli directly through their respective earpieces.

"This push should last a half hour at the outset, and we can't dose him indefinitely."

"I concur," Dr. Sasooli nods. "He should be under general anesthesia, but as this is not possible given his metabolic rate, we must make do. Our upper limit is three doses, and no more. I will not risk his heart. Please, Mr. Stark, get to work."

"You do all remember that I'm the one that signs your paychecks, right?" Tony asks, selecting a narrow tool from his tray.

"In this room, you are subject to _our_ professional discretion," Dr. Sasooli states, leaving no room for argument. He instantly makes it onto the list of your favorite people on the planet.

"Copy that, Kemosabe."

"I'm _Pakistani_," Sasooli protests. "'Kemosabe' was bastardized from the original Ojibwe by the white producers of _The Lone Ranger_ radio program."

"I hate all of you," Stark sighs, opening a panel on Barnes' arm that you hadn't noticed before.

"Tony is looking for the killswitch," you tell Barnes, remembering Natasha's suggestion. "The scan we did earlier helped pinpoint its location."

"It's buried beneath a ton of microprocessors and gears," Tony complains, grabbing another tool. "Gonna start clipping and clearing a path."

"Deep breath," you tell Barnes, squeezing his hand and standing a bit closer. He nods and starts to turn to look at what Stark is doing, but you redirect his attention with a gentle tug. "Look at me. Talk to me."

"What about?" he gasps, wincing as Tony snaps something free and drops it in a container being held out by one of the nurses.

"Anything. Whatever you want."

"You're beautiful," he says.

Banner makes a noise behind you and Dr. Sasooli coughs into his hand, muttering to himself in a language you don't recognize.

"You said whatever he wanted," Tony reminds you, and you could just _hit him_, except that you really need him to be conscious for the next few hours.

"Sorry," Barnes mumbles. "Dames used t'like hearing that from me. But that was _before_. S'different now, I know."

He seizes up a second later as Tony pulls at something that resembles a jointed, metal tube.

"Would it have killed them to remove this garbage as they replaced it with better components?" he asks, snapping his fingers at the nearest nurse and snatching the larger set of surgical pliers he passes forward. "Shoddy work. Lazy."

"Take it easy, Tony," you warn, motioning for him to back off as Barnes tries to roll away from him, pressing his head into your stomach. "I think we need another push. Did you feel that?"

He nods against you and shudders, whimpering and trying to move his arm away from the source of the pain, but instead finding it disabled and unresponsive.

Dr. Sasooli does as requested, recording the time on his chart. "That was far ahead of schedule," he notes, frowning.

"Bite guard," Barnes groans, settling back against the table. "Need a—a bite guard."

"Are you sure?" you ask, already accepting the thick rubber insert from the nurse.

"Yeah," he says, flexing his flesh-and-blood fingers around your own. "Give it."

"You have to tell me if you need us to stop, though," you tell him. "How do we work that out with the bite guard in?"

"Way ahead of you," Stark announces, grabbing a small, textured cylinder from his tray and tossing it to you. It's no bigger or thicker than a roll of quarters. "Panic button," he says. "He presses it and we'll know. I made it _really_ loud."

"Several decibels above my recommendation," JARVIS notes. "But Sir has never been fond of half-measures. Or restraint."

You nod and slip the cylinder into Barnes' hand, closing his fist around it.

"Leave your thumb on the trigger," you instruct. "And do _not_ try to tough this out. We can't have you slip—"

"I know," he pants, pupils constricting as the second push of painkillers finally make their way into his bloodstream. "Keep going. I'm good."

You offer the bite guard and he accepts it; the entire process reminding you far too much of what you'd witnessed inside his memory of that last wipe. The bank vault. The chair. The _machine_.

"Stark?"

"Yeah, yeah," he grouses, continuing to break off pieces of the internal workings of Barnes' cybernetic arm. "I'm doing this as fast as I can without triggering this thing."

"What are we dealing with?" you ask, pressing a soft cloth to Barnes' forehead, soaking up the sweat that has accumulated there.

"Y'know those little electrical surges we tracked on JARVIS' chart?" Tony asks, adjusting his overhead light to better illuminate the expanding cavity in Barnes' arm.

"They were causing the seizures," Banner continues, turning one of his monitors around so you can see it from the front. "This—" he brings up a schematic of a small tube, the cross-section of which exposes a thick coil of wire inside—"Is the cause, and it's what will kill him if it's ever purposefully triggered."

"It's a battery," Tony explains. "Not too dissimilar from what you might find inside a kinetic movement watch. Except this stores _a lot_ more energy."

"All of his normal day-to-day activities; walking, breathing, especially using the arm, create more energy for the battery to store," Banner adds. "HYDRA made him power the thing that would eventually kill him."

"It does have a limit, though," Tony scowls, still digging and prying pieces loose. "Which is why he's been experiencing smaller electrical discharges. The battery is dumping excess energy. I'm pretty sure HYDRA's maintenance techs would drain it somehow when he came in for service."

"How is it triggered?" you ask, trying very hard not to hyperventilate. You have to remain calm, _for him_.

"Two ways; remote detonation—and I'm guessing whoever had the access to that fun feature is dead or in the wind, preferably _dead_—or by disrupting the continuous circuit, which we need to do to get the goddamn thing out."

"We have a plan for that," Banner says, turning his screen back around and minimizing the battery model.

Barnes squeezes his eyes shut and breathes heavily through his nose. You can see the muscle of his jaw popping against his skin as he bites down.

"Why is he still feeling this?" you ask, looking behind you at Sasooli and then up to the windowed observation area where Cho is standing vigil.

"He's not feeling _all_ of it," Sasooli says, visibly paling as he checks the monitors. "Or even most of it. Without the drugs we've supplied, he'd probably be in cardiac arrest from the sensory overload and stress."

"They did this on purpose," Tony sneers, trading in his tools for what looks like a pair of miniaturized jumper cables. "They designed this entire thing to be a weapon _and_ to damn near kill him if it were ever disassembled. I don't know how they got it off—"

"I think," you swallow, forcing back the rising bile from your stomach. "I think they just cut it off."

"_What?"_

"That's what he assumed you would do," you continue, then glance down at Barnes. "Am I right?"

He manages a shallow nod and then screams around the guard.

"Get it _out_," you demand, putting most of your weight against Barnes' chest as he thrashes.

"J?" Tony asks, summoning one of his virtual projections. ""You got the numbers worked out?"

"Affirmative, Sir. Standing by."

"Step back," Tony tells you, pushing away from the table and holding his hands up.

You do as instructed, hating the way Barnes trembles when you break contact.

"Three, two, _mark!_"

You hear a high-pitched, electronic tone build up, small tendrils of smoke rising from where Tony's cables are attached to Barnes' arm. A crackle of electricity splits the air and Barnes' arm jerks. He screams again, reaching for you, but Dr. Sasooli holds you back.

"Are we clear, Mr. Stark?" he asks, motioning to the cables.

"JARVIS?"

"The device has been disabled, Sir."

"Shut down the charge," Tony orders.

"Already done, Sir," JARVIS answers.

You do your best to calm Barnes down as Tony extracts the battery and its casing. He carefully hands it off to another nurse and quietly tells her to get it down to Lab D for disposal. She places the dead device into a container filled with a thick gel, suspending it so that it can't be dropped or bumped, and wheels the entire thing out of the operating room.

"Shhh," you soothe, wiping the sweat dripping from Barnes' brow. "First step is over now, we got it out. You did so well, Sergeant. Shhh. I've got you."

"His vital signs are becoming erratic," Sasooli announces. "Dr. Cho recommends we delay the amputation until he is better stabilized."

Barnes shakes his head and presses his knuckles against your shoulder.

"We keep going," you counter, nodding to him so he knows you understand. "He wants to finish this."

"I'm sorry, but neither you nor Sergeant Barnes is qualified to—"

"The man says we finish, then we _finish_," Tony interrupts, resetting his tools and accepting a cup of water from a nurse.

"Thank you," you say quietly, adjusting Barnes' grip on the panic button. He's still breathing hard, face pale, and eyelids fluttering.

"We should start the last push," Banner suggests. "This next part is going to be hard on him. There's no way to get around the fact that the arm is directly connected to his nervous system."

"I took an oath," Dr. Sasooli warns, returning to his station. "This is seriously compromising the integrity of my word, of _those_ words. If we are to continue, let us do so and save our ruminations for afterward."

You slide your left arm under Barnes' shoulders and prop him up a bit, letting your other hand press against his jaw to keep his head steady.

"Barnes, look at me."

His eyes drag open.

"This is going to be bad," you tell him, leaning down until your foreheads touch. "Just hold on to me, and we'll get through it, okay?"

He nods, turning slightly towards you.

"Final push," Sasooli announces.

You count the minutes until some of the tension ebbs from Barnes' frame.

"Better?" you ask, and he nods again, whimpering around the guard.

"Stay with me," you tell him, squeezing his arm. "Don't go away."

"Brace yourselves," Tony warns, prying open another panel just under the shoulder joint.

"Blood pressure is dropping," Sasooli observes. "His pulmonary rate is erratic."

"With me," you croon, taking a deep breath in, trying to ignore the sounds of metal grinding against metal as Tony begins dismantling the arm's mounting. Barnes tries to keep pace, but eventually he's overwhelmed, his jaw straining against the guard as he chokes back another scream.

"Almost there," Stark grunts, bracing one foot against the table for more leverage. "Just need to—"

Barnes arches off the table, his entire body convulsing as he cries out—ragged, more animal than man. He drops the panic button and it rolls under the table where you can't reach it unless you let go of him.

"We must stop!" Sasooli is shouting. "His heart—he can't—I must _insist_!"

Even Dr. Cho is protesting, demanding you all cease the operation immediately through the intercom, banging against the tempered glass of the windows.

"Tony—" you start, though the words meant to follow are lost as a broad hand presses against your face, thumb brushing along the arch of your cheekbone. You glance down, terrified by the desperate, panicked look in Barnes' eyes. You cover his hand with your own, watch as he stifles a sob, the bite guard torn to shreds between his teeth.

"Got it!" Stark crows, as the horrible metal arm finally drops free from Barnes' body.

One of the nurses quickly steps forward and drapes a thin sheet over the severed appendage, moving it off the table where it can't be seen.

"I'm coming down there," Dr. Cho says into the intercom, furious. "Recovery team, get the patient stabilized and into his assigned room. Stark, Banner, and Sasooli… we need to talk, _now_."

"You stay with Comrade Popsicle," Stark tells you, unceremoniously dropping the bolt cutters onto the floor. "I'll make sure Steve and Company know which room they take Barnes to."

"Tony," you start, grabbing the billionaire before he can slip away to be berated by a very angry, world-famous geneticist and physician. "Thank you."

He just shrugs and taps the centerline of his chest.

"I know what it's like, to have something put in you that you didn't ask for. I had to almost die a whole bunch of times before I worked up the courage to take care of it. Figured he deserved to make the same choice."

You have no idea what he's talking about, but you accept the explanation anyway.

"Go take care of your boyfriend, Animal House," he says, steering you back to the table. "Did you see what I did there? _Animal_ because of, y'know,_stuff_, and _House_ like Dr. House, because you're sort of a doctor." He tilts his head to the side, "Too convoluted?"

"I think if you have to explain the joke—" JARVIS starts, but Tony throws his hands up and stalks out of the room, threatening to reprogram his AI to be more like _Friday_, whoever or whatever that is.

You return to the operating table, where the aforementioned recovery team is preparing to move Barnes onto a gurney.

You take up his remaining hand and give it a tentative squeeze. He spits out the remnants of the bite guard and cracks his eyes open.

"Hey…" you offer lamely.

"It's gone?" he croaks. "I can—I can still _feel_ it."

"That will pass," you tell him. "And you'll have a new, custom-designed prosthetic to replace it soon enough. Stark has all kinds of plans. You won't feel the phantom for long, I promise."

He pulls your hand up to his face and presses dry, cracked lips to your skin.

"We made it," he shivers, offering a watery smile. "We beat 'em."

"_You_ did," you correct, leaning against the table. "You are the strongest person I have ever met, Barnes. And I know some _really_ strong people."

He lets out a long, unsteady breath and closes his eyes again.

"Tired," he mumbles.

"Sleep," you tell him as the recovery team transfers him to the gurney and covers him with several thermal blankets. You manage to keep your hand intertwined with his, walking alongside as he's wheeled out of the surgical theatre. "I'll be there when you wake up."

* * *

Many hours later, you're roused by the sound of Rogers' gentle snoring. He's on the opposite side of Barnes' bed, having finally dropped off after vehemently refusing to leave the room and get some rest. You groan and try to adjust your lean-to position against the headboard, never quite finding a configuration that doesn't leave some joint or muscle aching.

You switch off the pain receptors in your shoulder and back, sighing as you get comfortable again.

A quiet rattle catches your attention.

It's Barnes.

"You're awake?" you whisper, unable to see his eyes with his head turned away from you.

He nods, and the rattling sound grows louder. He's shaking, ever-so-slightly, and starts reaching for the socket where his bionic arm had been mounted, his fingers grabbing at empty air.

"It's gone, Barnes," you reassure him, and he turns his head to look at you in the near-dark of the room.

"Please," he whispers back, licking his lips to soothe the split skin.

"What? What do you want?" you ask, taking his remaining hand in yours, running your thumb over his knuckles.

He tugs your hand, surprisingly strong, pulling you closer to the bed.

"I know I shouldn't ask, but—"

You offer a soft smile and nod, understanding.

"Just this once," he says. "It _hurts_."

You motion for him to scoot over, to make room, before slipping into place next to him. He rests his head against yours, and lets out a long, shuddering breath.

"M'sorry," he mumbles. "You don't want—"

"Would I be up here if I _didn't want_?" you ask.

"Not what_ I_ want," he counters, and you can feel where his mouth moves against your hair. "I almost forgot how to want, until you."

"Barnes—"

"I _know_," he sighs. "I know I can't. You won't, and it's okay. I've taken more than I deserve already. Just for a little while, though? Until Steve wakes up, then you can go. I won't stop you."

"I'll come back," you tell him, unable to stop the wetness pooling in the corners of your eyes. "I wish it were different, that_ I _were different. But it's not, I'm not. This would never work, Barnes."

He pulls you closer, tucking your head entirely beneath his chin; big spoon to your little.

"It could," he says. "You're just not ready. I'll wait, though. Long as it takes, _I'll wait for you_."

And despite your better judgment, you believe him.


	14. Chapter 14

"Seeking to forget makes exile all the longer; the secret of redemption lies in remembrance.

-Richard von Wiezsaecker

* * *

You leave the Tower first thing in the morning, once more promising Barnes that you'll be back after the school week is over. He doesn't mention the conversation you'd shared in the recovery room (or how he'd fallen asleep curled against you, good arm wrapped around your middle, nose buried in your hair), and you simultaneously dread and hope that he might have forgotten it entirely. He'd been drugged out of his gourd, after all, so chances are the entire _thing_ has been lost to the ether.

Probably for the best.

Steve does the hugging thing again, thanking you about a million times before finally setting you down (does he realize how _tall_ he is?) and escorting you to the building's lobby.

Sam is waiting for you outside the main doors, whistling low at the Ducati as an attendant wheels it out from the underground garage.

"Thing of beauty," he compliments, circling the bike with an appreciative look in his eye. "How much she set you back? If you don't mind my asking."

"She was a gift," you smile, tugging your helmet down over your ears. "I have generous benefactors."

"I'll say," he laughs. "They looking to adopt any more strays? I can break out the puppy-dog eyes if I gotta."

"I think you might be a bit too old to matriculate," you drawl, sliding your visor up so you can look at him properly.

"Ouch," he chuckles, hand over heart as if you'd wounded him. "My Old Man status aside, would I be crossing a line if I asked about taking you out for drinks next weekend? If you can sneak away from the Wonder Twins, that is…"

"I would _love_ that, Sam, really—"

"This is the 'but,' part," he says, looking down with a smirk and jamming his hands in the pockets of his (perfectly ass-hugging) jeans. "Right?"

"_But_ it would be as friends. I don't really date, if that's what you were angling for."

"I can work with that," he smiles, all mischief and innuendo. "_Not-_dating. I can _really_ work with that."

"Pervert," you scold, flipping the visor down and starting the Ducati's engine. "You pick the place, but I pick the drinks. We'll swap traumatic life stories and argue politics."

"What makes you think I have a traumatic life story?" he asks, shaking his head as he laughs.

"You're a superhero, aren't you?"

"Captain America is a superhero. I'm just a guy with a bunch of science strapped to his back," he answers, strolling out into the street and actually_stopping_ traffic with sheer swagger and force of will, waving for you to cut in.

"You're a superhero, Wilson. Accept it," you call, zipping out into the path he's cleared, waving briefly as you go.

* * *

Once you get home, Ana spends about an hour berating you for not texting her more often. You apologize profusely, and then recount the entire ordeal in as much detail as you can while also trying to prevent any of it from turning into pure nightmare fuel.

"But he's okay now, right?" she asks, bouncing on the edge of your bed.

"He'll get there," you tell her, tossing your pack into the closet, resigned to deal with it later.

"How's this gonna work? With you being here and him there?"

"Not sure," you look at her over your shoulder, retrieving clean clothes from your dresser. You have about three hours before your first class of the day, and you still need to shower, eat, and get your notes organized.

"You seem upset," Ana says, tilting her head to the side. "What happened?"

"Nothing, aside from what I told you already. It was a long weekend," you lie, shedding your wrinkled clothes. "Ugh, these even _smell_ like a hospital."

"Says the future doctor," Ana sighs, laying back on your bed. "You know I can tell when you're being less than honest, right?"

"Stay out of my head," you grumble, kicking your dirty clothes into the closet where they'll remain, lumped together with your bug-out bag, until you feel like tidying up.

"I don't need to sneak inside that disaster area you call a subconscious to know when you're telling a great, fat _lie_," she answers, kicking her legs out at you where they dangle over the edge of the bed.

"It's nothing," you insist, already stepping into your shared bathroom.

"It's never nothing," she counters, sitting up. "But you always _say_ it's nothing, and I have to pretend like you're being reasonable when, really, all I want to do is smack you upside the head and tell you to stop treating me like a _baby_. I'm your sister. If you can't tell me, who can you tell?"

Standing in the doorway of the bathroom, stripped down to your underwear and bra, you take a moment to study your younger sibling. She's watching you from the bed, propping herself up by the elbows, one brow arched the same way you know yours does when you're particularly annoyed (or when you know you've won an argument).

"Barnes said some things while he was high as a bloody _kite_, and I was exhausted and may have reciprocated his sentiments—aloud—but now that he's only mildly stoned, he seems to have forgotten the entire _thing_, and I'm not sure if I should be relieved or disappointed, or feeling like a complete prat for caring either way."

Ana remains silent for several long seconds before suddenly thrusting both arms in the air.

"I was TOTALLY right!" she cheers, bouncing up onto her feet and actually—no joke—_high-fiving herself_. "He's in _love_ with you! Oh my God, this is so awesome!"

"I'm putting you up for adoption," you scowl, just before slamming the bathroom door.

* * *

A week later, you're back at the Tower, kneeling and holding Barnes' feet firmly against the floor in his apartment as he finishes another rep.

"I owe you an apology," he pants, gritting his teeth as he finishes the last 25 crunches you'd demanded before allowing a break.

"For what?" you ask, rolling back on your haunches as he catches his breath.

"What I said to you in the hospital," he answers immediately, stretching flat against the floor. "When I woke up."

"I'm surprised you remember any of that," you shrug, trying to appear unconcerned. "You were pretty loopy."

"Not an excuse. I put you on the spot knowing how you felt about it already."

_It_.

You mentally cringe, simultaneously relieved and disappointed.

"You were tryin' to be my friend and I wouldn't let it go. Dr. Stapleton says I have a codependency problem."

"Dr. Stapleton?" you ask, tossing him a water bottle as he sits back up.

"My shrink. I—uh—thought about what you said, about my being stupid about all this," he gestures vaguely to his head. "I mean, I'm not in there spillin' my guts or anything, but we talk now."

"Is it helping?"

"Maybe. I dunno," he shrugs, looking away. "I don't want you to be uncomfortable about coming here. Thought we could start over?"

"That's not necessary, Barnes," you tell him, getting to your feet. "What we talked about—and I'm not going to act as if you were the only one doing the talking—doesn't have to hurt our friendship."

"I'd like that," he says, looking up at you and reaching for a hand getting up. "To have a friend. Beside Steve, of course."

"Put my name on the list," you nod, grabbing him around the proffered wrist and pulling until he's righted himself.

"It's a short one." He smiles and looks down again, flexing his toes against the smooth stone floor. "Not sayin' that I wouldn't take y'out dancing if the opportunity ever came up," he says, brushing back a stray strand of hair that's slipped loose from his ponytail. "But I got a lot of work to do. Couldn't see that before."

"You were hurting and frightened," you tell him, reaching out to smack him lightly against his forearm. "Don't be so hard on yourself. You look a hundred times better today than you did the last time I saw you. You're doing great, Barnes."

He's clearly put on some weight, though not nearly enough to fill out his frame. Still, he doesn't look like he's got one foot in the grave anymore, so you'll heap on the praise and count it as a victory.

"Appetite came back with a vengeance," he admits, eyes drifting toward the kitchen. "Like my stomach suddenly woke back up."

"That arm was constantly doing damage that your body had to fix," you tell him, padding toward the massive fridge. "Now that it's gone, you have a lot of resources suddenly being freed up to address other problems."

"It's a lot quieter upstairs, too," he tells you, trailing close enough behind that you can feel the heat from his body. "Still have the nightmares, though."

"What does Dr. Stapleton say about them?"

"That they'll probably always be there. I might go weeks or months without one, but they won't ever go away completely."

"Do you talk to—her?" you pause, tugging the door to the refrigerator open, basking in the sudden blast of cold.

"Her," he confirms.

"Do you talk to her about them in any detail?" you finish, retrieving another bottle of water for each of you.

"Not yet," he admits, wrapping both hands around the frosted plastic after you pass it over. "Maybe not ever. It's not easy to describe them without feeling like I'm back there."

"I get that," you nod, leaning forward on the opposite side of the counter, taking a long swallow from the ice-cold water. "Ana's always trying to get me to talk about mine. Be glad Steve is right around your age and knows when to back off. Younger siblings are the _worst_."

"You—" he hesitates, squinting slightly. "You have nightmares?"

"I think everyone does, Barnes."

"Yeah, but you don't mean the normal kind, do you?"

"Nope," you pop your lips and turn back to the fridge. "Drink your water. Don't want you to get dehydrated."

"What're they about?" he presses, standing up from his seat on the stool and coming around to your side of the island.

Well, now you're well and truly fucked. Stupid mouth and its _stupid_ mouth-sounds.

"I told you in Queens," you sigh. "Everyone has a past."

"Tell me," he prods. "Then I can tell you. It'll be fair that way. A trade."

"That's now how therapy is supposed to work," you tell him, drifting out of the kitchen before he can box you in. "And I'm not your therapist."

"I dream about falling," he says in a rush, catching up to you near the long couch in front of the TV. "Over and over. Steve just watches from the train car, laughing at me, turning away, and then the metal breaks off and I _fall_. Wake up screaming and Steve—the real one—is trying to kick the goddamn door down and make sure I'm okay."

"And you're not," you nod, sliding down onto the cushions, the soft material cool against your skin where your workout gear doesn't cover you.

"Fuck, no," he says, taking a seat on the opposite end of the couch. "And he knows it, but he doesn't push when I tell him to go back to bed. I think he already knows what I see when I close my eyes."

"He's read your file," you nod. "Maybe not all of it, but enough. I'm sure he has his own nightmares from crashing the _Valkyrie_, losing you, whatever else he considers his personal and public failures. Battle of New York was no picnic."

"The Potomac wasn't either," he sighs, scrubbing his hand over his face. "I dream about Zola a lot, too. About training. Missions. Things I did. Things that were done _to_ me. Sometimes, it's just people laughing and the memory of pain."

"I dream about my father," you tell him quietly, picking at the wilting label slipping free from your water bottle.

"Your father?"

"He was a bully, and a brute. Kept me and my mother living in absolute _terror_ for most of my childhood. I _loathed_ him, and feared him, and loved him all at once," you sigh. "You really want to hear this?"

"Yes," he nods, reaching out to brush his fingers against your bare arm. "That's selfish, I know, but I want to know everything about you. Good and bad."

"So we'll start with the worst bits," you exhale, smiling ruefully.

"I need to know you'll understand first," he insists. "Then maybe it won't be so hard to tell you more, about what I remember when I was the Soldier. There's so much _shit_ up here, and I want it out, _I do_, but how do you talk to someone about any of it if you're already convinced they couldn't possibly understand?"

You pull your legs in until your sitting in Lotus position, tucking the water bottle behind you so it won't get in the way or be a distraction.

"Experiences are, by their very nature, entirely subjective. What happened to me, and what I did in turn, can't measure up to your story in any quantifiable way. This isn't me telling you how we have some sort of shared life experience."

"I know," he says. "That's not what I'm after."

"Fair enough," you sigh, surrendering that last bit of resistance screaming at you to _stop bloody talking_. "My father was an absolutely _vicious_ drunk. He'd spend all his money at the pub after work, buying pints for himself and his mates, then stagger home, lit up like a Christmas tree, spitting mad and spoiling for a fight."

It's been over a decade, and you still feel a jolt of adrenaline whenever someone opens a door too quickly, or lets it bang shut behind them. Sometimes, just the smell of hard liquor will cause you to break out into a sweat, your brain already searching for the smallest, most inaccessible place to cram yourself in a bid to get away before you have a chance to remind yourself that he's _gone_.

"He'd find some reason to justify his wrath," you continue, swallowing thickly around a tongue that suddenly seems too big for your mouth. "Dinner had gone cold, house wasn't tidy enough, I was a spoilt brat, or my mother had let her gaze linger too long on the postman. Really, he just wanted to hit someone, so he'd get to shouting nonsense, maybe break a few dishes, and then beat on my mother for a while."

Barnes inhales sharply and you glance up, catching the way the muscles in his arm bunch as he grips the back of the sofa with his remaining hand.

"Sometimes, that's where it would end. He'd exhaust himself and pass out, then complain about the mess in the morning when he'd come 'round. But there were nights when seeing her blood on his knuckles wasn't enough, and he'd come looking for me. I got _really_ good at hiding, but he was relentless. Eventually, he'd drag me out of whatever hidey-hole I'd stashed myself in. He was smart about it, though. Never touched me where anyone could see the marks so long as I had my clothes on."

"I'll fucking _kill_ him," Barnes snarls, already starting to stand from the couch as if he means _right goddamn now_.

"Sit down," you snort, shaking your head at him. "Stop playing the fool."

"I'm not—"

"You want to hear this story or no?"

He claps his jaw shut, but his eyes are still bird-bright and burning. You feel your heart stutter in your chest at the sight of him, something warm coiling in your belly at the thought that he really would do it, if it were possible, and for no other reason than because someone had hurt you when you were small and defenseless.

"So, as I said, that went on for years, and we just took it as if we deserved it. As if there were no other way to live. Then, when I was eight, Ana was born, and everything changed."

"How?" he asks. "Why?"

"I had someone to protect, and that made me bold; brave, even. I couldn't let him do to her what he'd done to me, and I knew my mother would never stop him if he tried. She wasn't a strong woman, and I know that's terribly judgmental, but she was _my mother_, and she never once tried to put herself between him and me, while I lost count of the times I took the beating meant for her."

"Jesus Christ," he swears. "I'm sorry, kid. Jesus _Christ_, I'm so sorry."

"You my father?"

"No."

"Then what the hell are you apologizing for?" you ask, and before he can answer, you put your head down and push through. "The first time he came looking for me after Ana came home, I didn't run and hide. I grabbed the cricket bat I'd stashed under my bed and _beat him_ _bloody_."

"That's my girl," Barnes breathes, closing his eyes and sinking back into the couch, some of the tension draining away.

You feel something like pride well up inside at his relief and the words that tumble out of his mouth. You wonder if he's realized that he said them out loud, or if they just slipped through before he could think better of them and button up.

"Right, well… Things were better for a while after that. Nearly four years passed without a serious incident. Mum even got a job down at the local market bagging groceries. Nothing fancy, but it was the first time she'd had her own pocket money since she'd gotten married," you continue, looking up at the vaulted ceiling before eventually allowing your gaze to drift back down to Barnes.

"Didn't last, though," he guesses. "Right?"

"Course not," you confirm. "I was twelve the day it happened. Hadn't felt good that morning, but I went to school anyway. As the hours wore on, I got worse and worse, until my teacher took me down to the nurse and insisted I be sent home before I infected the whole school with whatever I was clearly incubating. I was sweating, dizzy, disoriented, and _itchy_ everywhere. Nurse tried to ring my parents, but no one was home to answer anyway. I told her I could walk, that we didn't live far, so she just shrugged and signed a note, sent me on my way."

You shiver, the memory of that day so crisp, so well-preserved in your mind that you'd swear you were back standing in the doorway to the tiny Edmonton council house you'd called home for over a decade.

"I knew something was wrong when I saw his car in the drive. He was supposed to be at work. Then there was Ana's little backpack—bright yellow, garish thing with an enormous smiley face drawn on the front—tossed in the garden bed. She _loved_ that stupid thing; she would have never left it in the dirt."

"I'd just gotten through the front door when I heard her _scream_. That sound—I'll never forget that fucking _sound_—shot through me and the whole world started spinning. Somehow, I got down the hall where I can see into our bedroom. And he's standing there, standing _over _her, and he's got his _belt_ in his hand. Ana's on the floor, holding her face where he's split her cheek open—hit her with the buckle, the fucking _monster_—and he's bringing his arm back to hit her again."

You must have started crying, because suddenly Barnes has closed the space between you, has got his good arm wrapped around your shoulders, crushing you against him. He's shaking as hard as you are, but not with sorrow or fear.

He's full of _rage_.

"That was the first time I changed, Barnes," you confess, resting your chin on what remains of his left shoulder. "One moment I was me, and then I wasn't anymore. I don't remember consciously picking what to become, but I knew I needed to be strong enough to protect Ana, to stop _him_. I must have made some sort of noise, because he turns around and looks right at me, bloody baffled, and says '_Ramses'_?"

You laugh against his chest, pulling back so you can look him in the eyes.

"Ramses. Our fucking neighbor's mastiff. That's what I turned into. A sodding _dog_."

"A big dog," Barnes argues, voice rough, before wiping your face with his whole hand.

"Yeah, big and mean. I could smell Ana's fear, and while my brain is busy fighting for control of the dog, Dad gets ready to pop me one. That did him in, ultimately. Next thing I remember, I've got him flat on his back, my teeth are in his throat, and I'm shaking him apart like a rabbit. He bled out in minutes."

"He deserved it," Barnes rasps. "Deserved worse. He would have killed one or all of you eventually."

"Maybe," you admit. "Maybe not. He probably wouldn't have lived 'til fifty, rate he was going. Doesn't matter though. In the end, it was me. I killed my own father."

Gradually, you tell him the rest of the grisly tale; how you'd changed back moments after your father's body had gone cold, covered in his blood, spitting it from your mouth. You'd hidden your torn clothes in the closet and put a clean uniform on moments before the first police car pulled up to the front of the house. Someone, maybe Ramses' owner, had heard the commotion and had called 999 to report the disturbance.

The police had never quite figured out how a dog got in and then out of a house with all the doors and windows shut, or how it had managed to leave no footprints. But the bite impression they'd taken from your father's corpse was irrefutably canine. A week later, the local magistrate ordered Ramses destroyed.

You hadn't cried a single tear for your father, but you'd _wept_ for the dog.

A month later, Dr. MacTaggert appeared on your front steps, declaring that you and Ana had been offered full scholarships to attend Xavier's School for Gifted Youngsters in America. It had taken an additional thirty thousand pounds, tax free, deposited in your mother's bank account before she signed over custody to a relative stranger.

She died two years later in a car accident. You were assured by what little family you had left that the funeral had been a tasteful, if modest affair. Professor Xavier paid for the whole thing, even offered to fly you and Ana back to England to sit in attendance. You'd politely declined, and Ana—always your little Shadow—never went anywhere without you.

"So that's my tale of woe," you sniffle, smirking and trying to downplay your positively fractured state of emotions. "Poor me."

"Don't," he says, voice surprisingly soft. "And I know you'll just yell at me again, but I'm sorry that happened to you. I can't stand that it did. I was somewhere, alive or sleeping, when he put you through that, and it makes me sick knowing—"

"I don't think my bastard-of-a-father would have rated as a worthy target for the Winter Soldier," you tease. You push back from him and step away from the couch, walking towards the huge windows that overlook the pulsing, damn-near _living_ lights of the city.

"There was a woman in Zagreb," he says, breaking the silence. "A scientist, I think. There were a lot of missions for scientists or their research. She had kids, a boy and a girl. I waited for them in their house, tied them up after they went to sleep and tortured her for hours, trying to extract whatever information my handler was after. When she wouldn't tell me what I needed to know, I threatened to murder her children in front of her."

"Did you?" you ask, unable to keep the horror out of your voice.

"No," he says, refusing to look at you. "Not in front of her."

He lets that sink in, his good hand traveling across his torso to press against the metal plates still embedded in his chest.

"I don't think she actually knew anything. Just before dawn, I got word to terminate the target and all witnesses. I put a bullet in each of their heads and burned the house down. The kids, they were awake when I pulled the trigger. They saw what was coming, saw _me_. I never even knew their names. Wasn't relevant to the mission parameters, I guess."

"That wasn't _you_," you insist, leaning your head against the cool glass. "You're not responsible for what they made you do."

"You think those kids give a shit about that distinction?" he asks. "Do you think _any_ of them would care?"

"They're dead, Barnes. They don't care about anything anymore."

"I have to find the people who put me in that house," he says. "All of them."

"You're in no shape to strike out on a quest for vengeance," you deadpan, returning to the couch and leaning over the back of it. "Sort yourself out first before making any oaths about redemption or restoring the balance."

"I tell you about how I murdered an entire family, and you _still_ find a way to make it okay," he sighs. "You and Steve are cut from the same cloth, I swear. Maybe you're related."

"It's not _okay_," you tell him. "It's horrible. But it wasn't your fault. You had no choice."

"Knowing that doesn't make the guilt go away," he mutters, picking at the fabric of the couch. "I have a lot of work to do. A lot to make up for. I got no right being here while all those other people are dead because of me."

"Well that's the great thing about not deserving something right away," you observe. "Means you still have the opportunity to _earn_ it."

"My Ma would have loved you," he smirks, looking up and granting the briefest of smiles. "She didn't have time for whining neither."

You laugh and stick your tongue out at him. His eyes flicker to your mouth, lingering there a moment too long before he clears his throat and stands up from the couch.

"Steve told me the others are having dinner together up at Stark's place," he says, walking towards the kitchen. "Wanted me to tell you that you're invited."

"You going?"

"Nah, I'm not—" he hesitates, dragging his fingers through his hair and pulling the tie free. "Not ready for that. Too many people."

"Fair enough," you shrug. "I'll stay down here with you. We can order delivery, maybe introduce you to the wonderful world of _dim sum_."

"That's Chinese, right?"

"Yes, Barnes, that's Chinese."

"Not any of that raw fish stuff, though," he says, wrinkling his nose.

You pick your phone up off a nearby side-table, bringing up the contact information for Radiance Tea House, chuckling at Barnes' apparent aversion to sushi.

"You have so much to learn, _padawan_."


	15. Chapter 15

"Seeking to forget makes exile all the longer; the secret of redemption lies in remembrance."

-Richard von Wiezsaecker

* * *

"You had _one job_," Wilson hisses at you in the back of the SUV, emphatically shaking his head.

"I know, I panicked," you whisper back, hiding your guilty smile behind your hand. "He ambushed me."

"I did not," Steve says from the front. "I asked if you if it was a date and you said 'no.'"

Barnes' head snaps around and he stares at you and Sam from the middle bench, which he's got all to himself.

"Was it a date?" he asks, facial expression switching from worried to annoyed to disappointed in a matter of seconds.

"Nah," Sam says, looking out the dark-tinted window to his left as Natasha navigates through the omnipresent press of taxis and delivery trucks. "She shot me down. Still, I didn't think this was gonna turn into a team exercise."

"I said I was sorry a hundred times already," Steve sighs. "We can go back to the Tower—"

"No we can't," Natasha interrupts. "Do you see this traffic? I'm not turning around."

"You asked her out?" Barnes asks, staring a hole right through Wilson's forehead.

"Oh man, did I forget my permission slip?" Wilson retorts, continuing to throw Bucky off-balance by refusing to get riled by the aggressive line of questioning.

Barnes' jaw works spastically for a few seconds before he turns back around.

"No."

"Don't sulk," you tease, tugging gently on Barnes' ponytail. He jerks his head away and leans forward so that it remains out of your reach. "Oh, come now. You heard him; it _wasn't_ a date."

"Think I stepped on Big Man's toes," Wilson chuckles. "My bad."

"I don't have a claim on her," Barnes growls.

"A _claim_ on me? What am I, a homestead? A bloody coal mine?"

Barnes just shrugs as Wilson howls with laughter.

"What was the name of this place?" Natasha asks, popping her gum.

"McSorley's," Wilson calls up to the front, wiping tears from his eyes. "We need to be on 7th."

"Copy that. Almost there."

It takes another 45 minutes before Natasha can find a place to park. You'd asked her earlier about the lack of a Stark-appointed driver (seems to you that having one would have made this much easier), but she'd just shrugged and said something about Tony's people only getting in the way. Also, they seem to make Steve uncomfortable, always asking for autographs or taking pictures for their Instagram accounts.

"It's important to maintain some semblance of normalcy for them," she'd said. "Besides, we're going out for drinks in the East Village, not raiding an AIM base."

Eventually, you make your way from where Romanoff has executed an impressive parallel parking job to Sam's choice of venue; an old ale house established in 1854, if the sign above the door is to be believed. Peeling black paint flakes from the weathered wood storefront, and an older gentleman is sweeping the sidewalk just in front of the door.

"Well, y'aren't locals," he says looking up from his work, the lilting cadence of his accent lovely and musical. "Where ya from?"

"Brooklyn," Steve admits. "But don't hold it against me."

"Ah, no, no, better not," the old man chuckles, wiping the corner of his mouth and squinting up at Rogers. "Y'look well enough, though. Good Irish stock, I'd guess, eh?"

"Both of my parents were from Ireland, actually," he says. "I'm not sure where though."

"Last name?"

"Rogers. My mother was a McGuirk."

"Rogers, eh? Sound English," he snorts, spitting onto the sidewalk. "McGuirk, though… That's County Tyrone or Antrim, for sure. Descendants of Niall Naoighiallach, himself-himself! You can go in. Go on with ya, get yerself a pint, boy-o."

The old man looks you up and down next, sucking on his teeth as he considers.

"No need to ask for my lineage, _ceannaire_—" you start, letting loose the full strength of your accent. "I come in peace."

"A prim English rose like you speakin' the Gaeltacht to _me, _lass?_"_

"You speak Gaelic?" Steve asks, hesitating in the doorway to the pub. "Since when?"

"Since none of your business," you needle, scrunching up your nose. "Get inside, _tú fear amaideach!"_

The old man barks with laughter, shooing the rest of the group inside before returning to his sweeping.

"So what's the deal?" Wilson asks, pushing another empty pint glass into the center of the table. You're sitting with him and Natasha at a table in the far corner of the dark, narrow room. Steve and Bucky are at the bar, talking to Mr. Donnelly—the old man with the broom, and also the owner, apparently—about the myriad photos, mementos, and other antiques that cover every available inch of wall and counter space. Steve had been particularly delighted when his question about which beers were available on tap was answered with a gruff: "Light an' dark, as God intended."

"The deal?" you parrot back to Wilson, keeping an eye on Barnes even as you try to simply relax and enjoy the evening. The bar had been relatively empty when you'd arrived, but it's quickly filling up with hilariously bearded yuppie hipsters and NYU students, none of whom seem to have any regard for personal space.

"With you, with your badass voodoo self," Sam answers, glancing at Natasha who is suddenly _very_ interested in the conversation.

"No idea what you're talking about," you mutter, taking a long pull from your beer. "I was raised Church of England. We don't go in for that hocus pocus stuff."

"That's how you're gonna play it, huh? Gonna pretend like we weren't standing there when you stepped out of The Hulk's time-out room, skin all leathery?" he challenges, mouth pulled to the side in that infuriating smirk.

"Your eyes do that thing, too," Natasha notes. "Oh, and Tony may have mentioned something about a _tiger_."

You spit your beer across the table, and Wilson loses it all over again.

"That little _worm_," you scowl, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand. "He said he understood the need for—"

"He was drunk," Natasha explains, waiting for Wilson to calm down. "The procedure with Barnes shook him, and Tony's never had healthy coping mechanisms for emotional stress or pain."

"So, what, it just came up?" you ask, punching Wilson in the arm as he continues to giggle.

"Not exactly," she says, leaning back in her chair. "I was curious about you. JARVIS wasn't willing to share information, and what I did manage to get my hands on had huge chunks of data missing."

"Natasha—"

"S.H.I.E.L.D. has been aware of what goes on at Xavier's for years," she tells you. "I figured you had to be some kind of gifted- or powered-person. You're, what? A shapeshifter?"

"Ten points."

"It's the only thing that fits," she says, her head tilting to the side. "And it explains a lot."

"Hold on a minute, hold on," Wilson says, leaning over the table towards you. "You're a _what?"_

"A shapeshifter. Metamorph. Changeling. Skin-walker. _Warg_, if you're really into George R. R. Martin, though he's got it all wrong."

"Holy shit," he breathes, eyes wide as saucers. "So you can, what, become other people?"

"I can look like them, _exactly_ like them if I have enough references to work with, but I don't become them. I'm still me inside."

Wilson slowly sits back, then downs his remaining pint (the bar serves them in pairs, and _only _in pairs) in one go.

"And there's a whole school of people like you upstate?" he finally asks, setting the glass back down.

"Well we're not _all_ shapeshifters. Some of us can read minds, fly, teleport, phase through solid objects, summon the power of Grayskull…"

Sam blinks at you before slowly standing up and wandering back to the bar, ostensibly to order another round of drinks, but more likely to avoid freaking out right in front of you.

"You have a useful skill set," Natasha notes, scanning the crowd, her eyes lingering on Steve's broad back where he's still standing at the bar, talking to the owner. "I can think of a dozen ops that would have gone a lot smoother if we'd had someone with your abilities on our team. On _my_ team."

"Not interested," you tell her, narrowing your eyes a fraction. "Unless you're hunting tech-obsessed Nazi death cults. I'm all over that."

She sighs and looks away again, just as Wilson returns to your table. He hovers there for a moment, a bit outside your direct line of sight.

"So what's this about a _tiger?"_ he asks.

This time, Natasha laughs.

* * *

"You okay?" you ask Barnes, having finally extricated yourself from Natasha and Sam. You were starting to have a hard time containing your annoyance at having your cover—flimsy as it may have been—blown because Tony can't keep his boozy trap shut.

"S'loud," he grunts, hunched up over the bar, his hand wrapped around an empty pint glass. "Don't like having my back open to the room."

You wrap an arm over his shoulder, angling your torso so that you provide at least partial cover.

"We can go," you tell him. "I think I've had my fill of cheese and onions."

He snorts, looking down at the half-eaten plate of exactly that.

"Steve's havin' fun," he grumbles, looking at you from under the brim of his Mets cap.

The other super-soldier is deep in conversation with the owner, and you suspect the stories he's sharing weren't told to him by the "grandparents" he keeps mentioning, but are likely things he experienced or remembers from his original lifetime. Mr. Donnelly indulges him, bringing out stacks of photo albums and scowling at any of the younger patrons who try to crowd the bar or demand his attention.

"I'm not worried about Rogers," you nudge. "I want _you_ to have fun, too. If you're not, we can go. This place will still be here next weekend. We can try again."

He nods and ducks his head closer to yours.

"Thanks, doll. Sorry if we ruined your date, and for what I said before about—"

"It's fine," you assure him. "He did ask me, but I declined. We were going to go out for drinks and conversation, nothing more."

"It's okay if you do, though," he continues, pulling away from you. "If you want to do that, with other people. Go out. Like I said, I don't have a—_we're_ not…"

You grab the bill of his hat and tug him back toward you, rising up on your tip toes to plant a kiss on his nose.

"Stop fretting so much," you tell him. "I'm a grown woman and I'll do what I want, when I want, with whomever I please. I don't need your permission. This isn't on you."

He flushes and licks his lips, those pretty, sad eyes once again lingering on your mouth. For a moment, you're worried he's going to do something _regrettable_ (oh, please _do_), but then he snaps out of his trance, turning away from you completely.

"Better tell Steve," he says. "I'm ready to go."

* * *

"Okay," you answer, patting his back. "We should be ready in ten. Just have to settle up, and then we'll be on our way home."

"I couldn'a stand the idea m'self," Mr. Donnelly is saying to Steve, leaning over the bar conspiratorially. "But the kids are always askin' after music, as if any of this could be considered such. Last t'ing I need is a bunch of rich brats _twerkin'_ their rear ends in my bar, eh!"

"It looks nice, though," Steve says, turning towards the brightly colored TouchTunes jukebox shoved off to the side of the bar. An advertisement flashes across the screen, announcing the availability of an accompanying smartphone app that will let the user select songs remotely.

"Damned nuisance," Mr. Donnelly grumbles. "Just a bunch of screamin' banshees, the lot of 'em. Listen to it, would ya!"

You turn your attention to the soundtrack currently playing, wincing at the excessive use of percussion and other vaguely ominous sound effects. When the lyrics come in, they're laced with a degree of anger you can almost taste.

"It is pretty awful," Steve concedes. "Can't even understand what they're saying."

"_Even if you run, I will find you_," the vocalist threatens. "_I decided I wanted you. Now I know, I need..._"

"Not really to my taste, either," you agree, frowning. You reach over and close the album Rogers had been paging through. "Time to go. Barnes is uncomfortable and this crowd is starting to turn."

You motion to the increasingly rowdy groups of people filtering through the narrow space. Mr. Donnelly stomps down to the other end of the bar to curse at a particularly drunk college student taking his ale fresh from the teat, lips sealed around the tap as he friends cheer him on.

"Yeah, okay. He should have said something," Rogers answers, digging in his jeans for his wallet.

"I already got the tab," you tell him with a wink. "We're all set, generous tip included."

"You shouldn't have done that," he winces. "I wanted to, I mean… I know that women pay for things now, I'm not a _caveman_, but I just—"

"Let's go, Gronk," you chuckle. "You've got that big mammoth hunt tomorrow."

"You're horrible," he laughs, glancing over your shoulder. "Bucky hit the head? I don't see him."

"What? He didn't say—"

"_If you can't be bought, tougher than I thought_," the band screams through the jukebox. "_Keep in mind, I am with you._"

The hair on the back of your neck rises and you grab Steve's hand.

"Something's wrong," you hiss, eyes darting across the floor to where Natasha and Sam are still sitting. Nat has her hand resting firmly on her hip, and her eyes are as alert as yours. She's noticed, too.

"What?" Rogers demands, his voice going hard as he catches sight of Romanoff and the change in her demeanor.

"I think we might have walked into something," you growl, a hundred micro-adjustments firing off beneath your skin. "I think—"

The noise of the bar suddenly dies down, the atmosphere souring enough to send the _actual_ civilians scurrying for the door.

"Lock that! No witnesses!" Mr. Donnelly barks, and a long-haired man dressed all in black nods once before shoving the people trying to flee away from the exit. As they stumble back, confused, he throws the deadbolt and takes up position in front of it, quickly flanked by three equally burly specimens.

"I'm sorry about this, Captain," the old man says from behind the bar, tapping his fingers on the beer-slick surface. "You seem like a good sort, but as I'm sure Secretary Pierce—God rest 'is soul—told ya, y'made the _wrong_ choice back in D.C."

"Don't do this," Rogers warns.

"Hail HYDRA," Donnelly replies, and then the room erupts into chaos.

There are too many people, too many sets of eyes for you to completely unleash on your assailants. Your instincts are screaming at you to change, to become something fierce and deadly, something with claws and teeth and muscles much stronger than yours will ever be.

But for the sake of your family, you hold back.

Gunfire explodes around you as Steve throws you to the floor. He's down next to you a split-second later, covering you before you shove him off. _He's_ the one who can't get hit, not without body armor, not without his shield.

"Stay down," you hiss at him, before launching back up onto your feet. Some passive part of your brain notes Natasha and Sam's positions relative to your own, that Sam is throwing pint glasses, chairs, entire _tables_ at anyone holding a gun that isn't Natasha. For her part, the Black Widow is fully in command of the situation, having produced twin Glock 26s from God-knows-where, dropping enemy combatants with a combination of well-placed shots and a masterful use of Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu.

You move against your assailants, careful to reign in the vicious, intoxicating thrill that can sometimes sweep you away in its current, making you _forget_ while you fight. Logan has described a similar sensation, describing it as _Bezerker Mode_, which you'd initially found delightfully nerdy, but have since come to appreciate as a supremely accurate descriptor.

The man closest to you raises his arm, the muzzle of his gun close enough to your face that you can make out the boring lines inside the barrel. You thrust your left arm up, against the bend of his elbow, and snap his joint the wrong way. You jerk your head to the side just as he fires. The damage to your ear is erased before he can even process what you've done and continue to do, splinters of bone poking up from his skin, stringy bits of meat tearing as you twist his forearm, destroying the cartilage. He'll be crippled for life.

You rip his gun away and toss it to Steve, who empties the magazine into Donnelly's face. You shove the HYDRA operative with the busted arm to the ground, and the pain finally hits him. He screams and you feel nothing but grim satisfaction.

Steve joins the fight in earnest, kicking another man squarely in the chest—the clear _crunch_ of bone a guarantee he won't be getting back up.

"They took Barnes!" Natasha yells over the din. "If they get him out of the city—"

She doesn't need to say any more. You pull your arm back and smash your fist into another face, the woman's bloody sputter sending teeth skittering onto the floor. You throw her to the side and make for the door.

Your way is blocked by a HYDRA goon squad quartet; the same men who had obstructed the only escape route for the (still screaming and panicked) civilians. Natasha drops two as she catches up to you, pistol-whipping the third while you charge the last man standing, launching yourself at him and driving your elbow up into his solar plexus. He blocks and twists your shoulder back. You feel it dislocate, but instead of locking up with pain as he expects, you simply shut off those receptors and throw yourself at him again.

He's caught off-guard and stumbles. You throw your head back, slamming the base of your skull into his face. His nose collapses inward and he lets go of your arm, hands flying up to catch the rush of blood. You snarl, teeth gone jagged, and kick him _through_ the door.

"Go!" Natasha yells, reloading both handguns. She puts two rounds in Fourth Goon's chest and one in his head to be sure of it as you leap past, out onto the sidewalk.

You draw in a deep breath through your nose, multiplying your olfactory receptors a hundredfold and increasing your brain's scent-processing power as much as you can without altering your outward appearance.

Barnes' scent stands out like a signal flare over dark waters; a distinct chemical trail you can almost see. You sprint off after him, immeasurably grateful that you'd decided to wear sensible shoes for your _not_-date.

You follow 7th Avenue out to 3rd, heavy road construction keeping the traffic to a minimum, then across Cooper Square into an alley that threads its way between a huge gym and a furniture warehouse. At the far end, Barnes stands in front of a brick wall, swaying on his feet.

"James?" you ask, slowing to a jog. Once again, your senses are on high-alert, some internal gauge warning you that the situation is far from right.

He doesn't answer or show any outward sign of having heard you.

_This is a killbox_, you realize, moving so that you're pressed up against the nearest wall. _So where's the killer?_

You adjust the light-processing cells in your eyes to see along the infrared spectrum, patterning the change after boa constrictors and pit vipers.

_Where are you?_

A tiny red dot suddenly appears on the back of Barnes' head and you barely have enough time to tackle him to the cement before the crack of the shot rings out. A hole the size of a lemon is blown in the wall in front of you, pulverizing the brick and mortar.

"Across the street!" Natasha shouts from the mouth of the alley. "The hotel roof! Is he hit?"

"No, but something's not right. He's completely checked out."

"Conditioning," she shouts back to you. "Someone probably whispered a code word or—"

"Roll left," you bark, watching as the tiny red light flashes on her position. She complies immediately and the shot misses, blowing apart the rubbish bin.

"Shooter is on the move," she reports. "We don't have long before he resets."

"We have to get him out, Widow," you tell her as she finally reaches your position. "He's the one they want."

"I've got six rounds left," she says. "And my stingers, but they're not much use unless I'm fighting hand-to-hand. There's only one way out of this alley unless you think we can drag him up over the wall—no, don't actually _consider _it, I was being sarcastic."

You huff and roll Barnes onto his back. His pupils are blown wide enough to swallow most of the irises, making his eyes seem black in the encroaching darkness. You scowl, pressing your fingers against his carotid. "Heart rate is a bit slow, almost like he's drugged. Where the _hell_ is Steve?"

"Probably calling for backup and looking for us. HYDRA must not have the tech to wipe Barnes anymore," she answers. "Otherwise they'd be trying to take him in instead of taking him _out_."

"Doesn't matter. They don't get to _touch him_ ever again."

"Agreed," she says. "We'll have to make a break for the street, then get him inside a building until reinforcements arrive. We hunker down, wait for an extraction."

"Sounds like a solid plan," you nod. "Let's go."

You get yourself positioned under Barnes' right arm and shoulder, grunting as you take as much weight as you can. The muscles in your back, shoulders, calves and thighs thicken, pushing out against your skin. You crank up the production of red blood cells as well, flooding the newly expanded muscle groups with oxygen.

"Now!" Natasha orders, and you drag Barnes with you at an easy, loping pace, hoping it doesn't look too unnatural to the asshole with the scope. Your eyes search for the beam of light, search for any surface it might be trained on as the shooter lines up his next shot. You follow Natasha out onto the sidewalk, the gunfire having vacated the area of pedestrians, as she leads you right, towards the building you'd marked as a gym earlier. The signs on the window say 'COMING SOON!' and 'SIGN UP TODAY!' and 'BE BEACH BODY READY!' and you kind of want to smash one of them and forget about running all the way to the _fucking_ door.

"Move, move!" Natasha shouts, shooting out the lock on the front door to the gym and throwing herself against it, forcing it open. She makes way for you to pull Barnes through, to safety, and then you see it.

The little red dot, hovering right between Natasha's eyes.

You drop Barnes inside the doorway and jump forward, directly into the shot.

The sniper fires, and your world explodes.

* * *

Someone, somewhere, is screaming your name.

Your eardrums are both blown out, slowly knitting themselves back together as your brain starts to rebuild its higher-functioning lobes. Critical damage is always dealt with first unless you consciously force a less-pressing problem to jump the line. Heart has to keep pumping, oxygen still needs to reach your vital organs. Priorities, right?

Having a brain beyond what is purely _reptile_ seems like a good idea though, so you let your body do its thing uninterrupted.

"NO!" the deeply distressed voice continues, and distantly you feel weight on your chest, fingers pressing down over your ribs. Someone is trying to perform CPR. "Don't leave me, please! _Please!"_

_That's stupid_, you think. _He blew my fucking head off, not my heart or lungs. Plus, I'm pretty sure my jaw is in about a thousand pieces right now. What're you gonna breathe into, my throat?_

"Natalia! _Do something!"_

"You need to take a step back, James," Romanoff's answers, her words almost lost beneath the growing wail of sirens. You don't have eyes anymore (or if you do, they're no longer attached to your head, or solid, or—_eugh_), but you can almost picture Natasha trying to pull Barnes away, to block him from seeing the absolute _mess_ of bone and blood and brains.

"Grrughf," you manage, new teeth sprouting from your reformed gums, little enamel tombstones growing out of their roots and slotting into place. You cough as your windpipe snaps back into position, patching itself whole and reconnecting to your mouth and sinuses.

"святое дерьмо," Natasha swears, and now you _can_ see her; hazy and indistinct, but definitely her.

"Stop that," you gasp, pushing Barnes away and rolling onto your side to hide the exposed gore as everything is restored to working order. "Making such a fuss over nothing."

"Fuck you," he stutters, shaking and fully himself again. Whatever spell HYDRA's trigger had woven, it's broken now. "I thought—You died right in front of me and—you _died_ and I couldn't—there was nothing—"

"Slap him," you grumble, waving a hand in Natasha's direction. "I'd do it myself but I'm still regrowing most of my cerebellum. No fine motor control yet."

"God _dammit_," he says, grabbing your shoulder and pulling you up to a sitting position. "I thought I _lost you_."

"Dunno how. I didn't _go_ anywhere. Or rather, I went everywhere. Carpet is ruined, for sure."

"This isn't funny!" he screams, eyes red and raw.

"I have _brain damage_, Barnes," you scowl. "Give us a minute, yeah? Let me get everything sorted and then I can mother you and we'll make kissy faces 'til the bloody sun comes up. Fuck's sake, mate."

You never can tell how things will go when you take cranial damage like this; your frontal lobe was turned into pudding and splattered up the wall, the back of your brain blown out in a spray across the floor, left and right hemispheres liquefied from the force of the shot. Your hindbrain survived, but even if it hadn't, some cellular cluster would have gotten right to work fixing what had been destroyed. Restoring all that grey matter and shuffling things like _memory_ and _personality_ back into place will take a bit longer than creating a new finger or liver, though.

Sighing, you sink forward into his chest, inhaling the musty scent of his jacket. It stinks of mothballs and whatever cologne he splashed on (probably something Steve had handy) and it's all wrong and not _him_.

"Hate this," you say, tugging on the sleeve. "Burn it when we get home. I'll buy you a new one."

He pulls you further into his lap, rocking gently. His heart is hammering in his chest at an alarming rate.

"I could see and hear everything," he tells you. "But I couldn't move except to go where they told me to. Had to report to the alley and wait for my handler."

"There was no handler, Barnes," you tell him, feeling the pressure stabilize inside your skull with a perceptible _pop!_ "They were going to—"

"I know," he says. "Don't ever do that again."

"Save your life?"

"Risk yours for mine."

"I risked it for Natasha's, actually," you correct, smiling against him.

"Thanks for that," she adds, crouched just inside the doorway, her one remaining Glock at the ready. "I can see Steve and Sam. Pretty sure that shimmer overhead is one of Stark's Quinjets. NYPD will be here in seconds."

"Promise me," Barnes chokes into your hair. "You won't ever do that again. Not for me, not for _her_, not for anyone."

"Nuh-uh. I'll do it every time. Always. For any of you."

Because you're an X-Man.

Because you're a goddamn _superhero._

* * *

"What the hell happened tonight?" Stark demands, pacing along the length of the conference table.

His people, along with some of Fury's, had cleared a path for you and the others to make your getaway onboard the Quinjet earlier. After arriving at the Tower, everyone had received some cursory medical attention before being herded here, to the War Room.

"We were jumped," you scowl, ignoring the growing hunger gnawing at your insides. You'd burned through_ a lot_ of energy tonight and will need to replace it soon, or your body will start _eating itself_ to compensate.

"And how did _that_ happen?" Tony continues. "Where was your security detail?"

"I didn't take one," Natasha says, sitting across from you. "Barnes doesn't go anywhere in this place without a small army trailing him, and Hill's security teams are _extremely_ unprofessional where Rogers is concerned. They need a break. _We_ needed a break."

"Well your little vacation almost got Sergeant Barnes killed," he snarls, shoving a chair against the table. "This one had her _head_ blown off, if your report can be believed."

"I got better," you shrug. "Much more concerning to me is how the one bar we decided to sneak off to just so happened to be run by a HYDRA cell. One that seemed to be expecting us."

"Whoa, whoa," Sam says, looking hurt. He has a pressure bandage wrapped around his right bicep, where a bullet had gone in-and-out cleanly. "I am _not_ a HYDRA spy."

"We know," Natasha says. "I conducted your background investigation myself. But they knew we were coming, and they've known it for a few days at least."

"How do you figure?" Steve asks, fingers knitted together, elbows resting on the surface of the table. Barnes is sitting next to him, alternating from a preternatural stillness to a full-body tremble that starts in his hand before spreading to all of his extremities.

"That ambush took planning, Steve. HYDRA, as an organization, is in tatters. This was a major operation for them to launch, and even though it was _sloppy_, it was a lot more than we were expecting."

"You've been _expecting_ something like this?" you ask, bristling.

"I try to expect everything that falls within the realm of possibility," she explains. "Reduces the odds of my being surprised."

"But you _were_," Tony accuses, then turns his attention to Wilson. "Did you talk to anyone about where you wanted to take Jane of the Jungle?"

"I don't make a habit of gossiping with the interns," Sam sighs. "I don't think—aw, _shit_."

Everyone, minus Barnes, leans forward in their seats.

"I, um, might have been talking about it to a barista at that coffee shop down the block," Wilson groans, pinching the bridge of his nose. "I asked her for suggestions."

"Because you're from out-of-town," you nod.

"Yeah. I didn't think it was weird at the time, but she had _a lot_ of questions about you. When I mentioned that you were English, she told me about this 'authentic' pub in the Village. Said you'd love it for sure."

"Probably a HYDRA plant," Stark says. "JARVIS? Alert Hill. She'll coordinate a joint investigation with S.H.I.E.L.D. and the FBI, probably the NYPD, too. Everyone wants a piece of these assholes. Makes for great television."

"Already done, Sir," the AI responds. "She recommends we lock down the Tower for the time being."

"Do it," Tony answers. "No one in or out for at least twenty-four hours. Make sure everyone is compensated for the OT."

"And what of non-employees, Sir?"

"Cut them disproportionately-sized checks," he huffs, dispensing what will likely be _millions_ of dollars with about as much concern as one might display for having ripped off too much toilet tissue.

"You gonna arrest everyone in the café?" Wilson asks.

"I'm not arresting anyone. But the people who _do _will take them in for questioning and you, my feathery friend, will be shuttled to whatever lockup they're escorted to and help ID the responsible party. Consider it Step One in what will likely be an _exhaustive_ list of steps required before you can start to feel like somewhat _less_ of an asshole."

"I didn't think—"

"That's the problem!" Tony sneers. "_None_ of you were thinking! We don't even have Barnes' legal situation smoothed over and you idiots are taking him out for body shots?"

"We had a few beers," you argue. "And Natasha is right; you can't keep him locked up in the Tower like he's bloody _Rapunzel_."

"You should have cleared your little field trip with Hill," Tony says. "At the _very_ least. How can I trust—"

"Oh, don't start preaching to me about _trust_, Stark," you snap. "I trusted you with highly sensitive information, stressed to you how important it was to keep it classified, and not _two days_ after I go home, you hand that information over to one of the planet's most accomplished _fucking_ spies."

"What?" he asks, looking genuinely baffled.

Natasha clears her throat.

"I didn't—" Tony starts, then visibly pales, finally taking a seat in the chair he's been hitting and shoving around for the last half hour. "You," he says, staring at Romanoff. "Are a very, _very_ bad influence."

"I never forced you to—"

"Oh, no, of course you didn't. You just showed up when you knew I'd be upset with a bottle of the good stuff in one hand, and offered a sympathetic ear and a shoulder to unburden myself on. Do you do _anything_ sincerely?"

"Yes," Natasha answers, declining to elaborate or defend herself further.

"What happened, _happened_," you sigh, rubbing your eyes. "I want to know _how_ they did it. Even with the coffee shop agent pointing Wilson in their direction, are we really supposed to believe that HYDRA has been running an Irish pub in the East Village since the 1850s?"

"Pardon me," JARVIS interrupts. "But I have been scanning recent police reports for anything that might have been related to what happened this evening, and I believe I may have found something of importance."

The hologram display in the center of the table generates several police reports, along with one _very detailed_ coroner's file on a "white male, late 80s, identity unknown" whose body had been pulled from the Hudson three days earlier. Neither the water nor the fish had been kind.

"I ran our facial identification program against all social media accounts, public records, and security footage, and found a match," JARVIS continues. "_This_," he says, a photo of a smiling, ruddy-cheeked older gentleman replacing the collection of reports, "is Cormac Diarmuid Donnelly, born January 15, 1933. He is listed as the sole owner and proprietor of McSorley's Old Ale House, 15 East 7th Street, New York, New York."

"That's not the man who claimed he owned the place," Steve says, stricken. "_That_ man was never HYDRA."

"Son of a bitch," Tony breathes. "They killed him and put a doppelganger in his place on the _off-chance_ that Barnes might show up. He wasn't even supposed to be there, but they took steps anyway."

"They might have been happy to take out an Avenger or two," you suggest, glancing at Sam. "And if they have eyes on Barnes, they'll have taken notice of me, as well. Maybe they thought kidnapping or killing us would have drawn him out."

"Would have," Barnes mumbles. "If they took _you, _if they hurt _you_."

"Love you too, man," Wilson scowls.

"Barnes," Natasha says, staring at the former assassin now that he's finally spoken. "Do you remember if anyone said something to you before you walked out of the bar? Someone you didn't recognize, who maybe showed a little too much interest in you?"

"Wasn't a word," he says, shaking his head and keeping his eyes down. "The song."

"_Bastard_," you hiss, the information sliding into place. "Donnelly—or whoever he really was—he made a point of getting Steve and I to listen to the music playing on the jukebox. Must have thought it was hilarious having us sit there discussing how we didn't like it while Barnes had his switch flipped."

"Sniper had to be HYDRA as well," Natasha says. "Or someone they hired. He was good. The plan was to have a captive, static target. When that didn't happen, he or she adapted. If it weren't for your abilities, they would have taken one or several of us out."

"Probably too much to hope the police recovered anything useful from the scene," you groan. "Fingerprints would be nice. DNA, better."

"I may be able to assist there as well," JARVIS says, new images taking center stage. "I obtained these from several Stark Industries and NASA satellites. The composites are quite impressive, if I do say so myself."

A man dressed in black tactical gear crouches on the roof of a building—the hotel across from the alley—a high-powered rifle lined up for his shot. A close-up of his face shows a black mask with a slash of white paint, vaguely resembling a skull.

"Anyone recognize this asshole?" Tony asks.

"He does not match any of the descriptions in our databases," JARVIS states. "But I will continue to search for additional information."

"Doesn't ring any bells for me," Steve sighs. "Buck?"

"No."

"I've never seen him before, either," Natasha says. "But I'll make some calls."

"I know a guy," you groan, already dreading the necessity of seeking him out. "If _anyone_ knows or can find out who this bastard is, it's Frank."

Fucking _Castle_. He'd better not still be living in the bloody _sewers_.

* * *

Immediately after the debrief, you call home. The hour is obscenely late (or early, depending on your perspective), but the Professor dismisses your apology for waking him as being entirely unnecessary. He's far more concerned about _you_, about the injuries you'd sustained, and the care being provided by Stark's medical staff.

"I'm fine," you assure him. "Nothing a few pizzas and a truckload of Gatorade won't fix."

"I will do what I can from here to track down any leads on the shooter," Charles promises. "And I'll bring Scott and the others up to speed myself."

"He's going to have me skinned alive," you groan, heading toward the elevator that will take you to your quarters.

"This entire situation frightens him," the Professor says. "He has very good reasons for wanting to stay out of the affairs of the rest of the world."

"He can count whatever reasons he likes," you argue. "The rest of the world isn't going to keep away simply because he wishes it would. You taught me Global History, Professor. Isolationism never works over the long-term. Eventually, someone always breaches the walls we build around ourselves."

"You're right," he answers, voice gone soft, almost sad. "I believe the days we can stay safely hidden are coming to a close, regardless of mine or Scott's precautions."

"Why do we always assume _hidden_ lends itself to _safety_?" you ask, stepping into the elevator. JARVIS knows which floor to take you to, the doors sliding shut just before the carriage begins its descent to the guest quarters.

"There are some things that we will need to discuss the next time you are home," he answers. "The nature of which require a face-to-face conversation."

"That's… portentous," you remark, stepping out of the elevator, and turning left towards the hallway that leads to your (spacious, gorgeous, _with an amazing view_) room.

"See to your immediate needs for now," the Professor says. "And then get some rest. You sound exhausted."

"Okay," you agree. "Thank you."

You say goodbye and disconnect, stepping into your room as JARVIS automatically unlocks the door for you.

"Madam, forgive me if I have overstepped my bounds, but I took the liberty of ordering food for you while you were speaking with your mentor," the AI reports.

"No, that's fine. Great, even. Thank you. Can I ask what you chose?"

"A variety of items. We have several world-class chefs under the direct employ of Mr. Stark and Ms. Potts, for themselves and their guests, and the various eateries within the Tower. Everything should be delivered to your door within the hour."

"You are the best," you sigh, tossing your phone onto the sculptural piece of furniture that is probably a desk or an end table. Might just be art, but you've always thought _functional_ art was the best kind anyway.

"I aim to please," JARVIS answers. You smile and strip out of your bloody, gore-smeared clothes and make a beeline for the shower. The hot water is a balm, as is the fantastic-smelling shampoo and conditioner you generously lather into your hair. By the time you shut the water off, someone is knocking at the door.

"Food!" you chirrup, wrapping a towel around yourself and practically _skipping_ to accept the delivery.

"Actually—" JARVIS starts, but you already have the door pulled open, exultant grin replaced with a confused purse of your lips when it's not a trolley full of appetizing meats and pies that greets you, but _Barnes_.

"What are you-? Does Steve know you're down here?" you ask, immediately noticing the rigid way he's holding himself.

"No," he answers. "He stepped out to talk to Natasha, so I left."

"JARVIS?"

"I have notified the Captain. He wants to know if you need him to retrieve Sergeant Barnes."

"Do you want to stay here?" you ask. "Are you okay?"

"Yes," he says. "No."

"You're not okay?" He shakes his head and takes a tentative step inside your room. You hold your ground as he reaches out with his good arm, his fingers tracing your jaw, up across your cheekbone, your forehead, and down the opposite side as if he's checking to make sure you really are in one piece.

"Tell Steve to stand down, JARVIS. I have this."

"Yes, Madam."

"You were gone," Barnes says. "I didn't protect you."

"Oh, Barnes," you sigh, taking his hand in yours and leading him into the living space. "I don't need you to protect me. This wasn't your fault."

"It was."

"No, I am telling you that it _wasn't_. I saw the laser sight, and I _chose_ to step between Romanoff and the bullet. Don't try to rob me of my autonomy by insisting that any of what I did of my own volition was because of _you_."

Before you can stop him, Barnes sweeps you up bridal style, his face a hard mask. He kicks the door shut behind him and heads to the back of the suite, depositing you in the center of the plush bed.

"I _couldn't_ protect you," he says, fidgeting.

"We'll have to settle for protecting each other," you snort, pushing yourself back against the headboard until you're sitting on your own pillows. "And stop man-handling me. My legs aren't broken."

"I'll get stronger," he tells you. "I won't be like _this_ forever. I was good at that once; protecting people."

"Come here," you sigh, patting the space next to you. "Dinner should be here shortly. We'll expand your culinary repertoire and then go to sleep. I'm too damn tired to try reasoning with you at the moment."

"I'm not fragile," he insists, untying his boots before slowly settling down next to you.

"You're a _mess_," you laugh.

"You're, uh, _naked_," he retorts, a sly grin spreading across his face. "Under that towel."

"Lecher," you accuse. "I can put clothes on if it makes you uncomfor—"

He leans in and presses his mouth against yours, swallowing the rest of your jibe. The briefest brush of his tongue against your lips makes you sigh, damn near involuntarily, and he _licks_ inside your mouth, sweet, and hot, and brimming with the promise of delicious _sin_, before pulling away.

"Been wantin' to do that since Brooklyn, doll," he says, still staring at your mouth. "Won't do it again until you ask me to."

He starts to get up, leaning over the edge of the bed to pull his boots back on.

"Barnes—"

He flinches, ready for the reprimand.

"Stay."

* * *

**Notes:**

BOOM.

*drops mic*

:D

Translations:

"ceannaire" = chief

"tú fear amaideach!" = you silly man!

"святое дерьмо" = holy shit

HYDRA's trigger song: "Prosthetics," Slipknot (I KNOW RITE?!)

Fun fact: McSorley's Old Ale House is a real place in the East Village. They really do only serve 2 types of beer, and it is awesome. I highly recommend checking it out if you're ever in the neighborhood.

The actually owners are the Maher family, so please don't accuse any of them of being HYDRA agents if you do stop by. XD


	16. Chapter 16

**WARNING: THIS CHAPTER IS NSFW!**

* * *

"Seeking to forget makes exile all the longer; the secret of redemption lies in remembrance."

-Richard von Wiezsaecker

* * *

You both manage to sleep well into the afternoon, eventually roused by Barnes' arm pulling you closer against his chest, his breath warm on the back of your neck. You're not sure when or _how_ the two of you had gotten so tangled up, but the panic you expect is utterly absent and in its place resides a deep, abiding sense of comfort.

"Morning," he rumbles, and you can _feel_ the reverberation pass from his body to yours.

"I think," you sigh, turning in towards him and resting your head against his chest, the hard ridges and lines of the shoulder implant unyielding beneath his shirt, "we're long past _morning_."

"Had a rough day," he says gruffly, rolling so he's lying flat against the bed, dragging the comforter up around his waist. There's color in his cheeks as he continues to shift around, pointedly avoiding eye contact.

"You alright?" you ask, brow arching at his sudden restlessness. He'd been so _still_ before, you'd almost forgotten—

"You're still naked," he huffs, pinching the bridge of his nose with his one remaining hand. "Haven't shared a bed with anyone in… well, I can't remember how long it's been, honestly."

You blink, having forgotten your state of undress entirely. The towel that you'd wrapped around yourself had evidently gotten lost in the tangled mess of blankets and pillows while you slept, and you'd been so tired after polishing off the last of the (finger-lickin' _good)_ food JARVIS had ordered, you must have fallen asleep before rectifying your clothing deficit. In an instant, a pattern of scales slightly darker than your own skin tone pebble over your skin, providing some cover. The overall effect _helps_, of course, but only the thicker, near-black leathery skin you normally summon when shifting can be compared to something akin to "clothing."

"I'm sorry," you offer, turning your back to him to avoid putting on a show. "I'll just—"

"Christ," he swears. "You got no reason to apologize to _me_. You're not the one who can't control—"

The wheels in your head lurch as he cuts himself off. Pulse quickening, you feel your mouth go suddenly dry. There's a question, balanced there, practically _vibrating_ at the desire to be spoken aloud, and before you can think better of it, you ask:

"Barnes… _Are you—_?"

"Please don't make this any worse than it is," he groans. "Fuckin' embarrassed myself enough for one day."

"This isn't the first time since—since HYDRA fell, is it?" you press, curiosity having gotten the best of you. For medical reasons, obviously. _Exclusively_. Stop judging.

He groans and squeezes his eyes shut, the smallest downward tilt of his chin indicating a 'yes.'

"Oh, you poor man," you breathe. "I'll, um, just step outside—after getting dressed, of course—and you can—y'know. Whatever you need to do. I mean, you _know_ what you need to do, no reason to get any more detailed—I'm going to stop talking now."

You bite your lip, carefully slipping out from under the covers less you disturb the shield-wall he's built around himself.

"This is your room, I'll go," he mutters.

"No, it's fine. I want you to—I mean, not like that, well sort of like that, I suppose. I cannot _believe_ I fell asleep like this."

"Me either. Kept expecting you to wake up and sock me in the jaw," he groans, eyes turned towards the ceiling once more. "Thought I was dreaming when you moved in so close. You have any idea how _warm_ you are?"

"Barnes—"

"I know," he nods, eyes flicking to your back, then to your eyes where you've turned towards him slightly. "Had to say it, though. Once, at least."

You look away, wanting so _badly _to throw caution to the wind, to stop thinking three moves ahead of the _now_, to accept that maybe—just this once—the Universe has conspired in your favor, putting someone in your path that you not only feel a connection to, but for whom the attraction is mutual, who understands and desires you despite your being what you are, who can hold his own in a fight, someone you can see becoming part of your family, even if they'll make it as hard as humanly possible.

The rational part of your brain knows that Barnes is still too screwed up to be involved with anyone, and that you have a moral obligation to make the hard call and stop this before it goes too far.

"You asked me to stay," he says quietly, breaking your silent reverie and bringing you back into the moment. "Why?"

"Because I wanted you to," you answer simply. "Because yesterday was _horrible_, for both of us, and I didn't want to sleep alone, didn't want _you_ to sleep alone. There is—I _do_ feel something for you, and I don't think it's a passing infatuation or some remnant of my mind in yours; yours in mine. I don't think it has anything to do with _handlers_, or brainwashing, or misplaced affection."

"But you're not sure of _me_," he says from behind you.

"I'm not sure you're ready," you correct. "I'm not sure that I wouldn't be taking advantage."

"I know I'm not all there yet, but I'm putting the pieces back together. I know you deserve more than something so broken—"

"Some_one_," you snap, twisting your torso around and staring across the bed at him. "You are not a _thing_. You are a person, a _good_ person. And you aren't broken, either."

To his credit, his eyes remain trained on yours, though you have to guess that's because you've caught him off-guard—as evidenced by the stunned expression on his face—rather than any gentlemanly restraint.

You swivel all the way around, tucking your legs under you. "You do know that, right? That you're good? A good man, a good friend?"

"I'm not—" he starts, shaking his head. "I was, _before_; I think I was a pretty okay guy. Tried to do the right thing, but now I'm not sure where I fit."

"Here," you say, smoothing a hand along the rumpled sheets. "This is where you belong. Home. _Safe_. Surrounded by people who care about you, who love you."

"With you," he says, unsure, half-a-question.

"If you like," you smile, head tilting to the side.

"I do," he answers immediately. "And if this—" he waves his hand over the limp, empty sleeve on his left side, "—bothers you, I don't _need_ a new one. Lotsa guys got injuries worse than this, and they do all right. Sam talked to me about it."

"It's part of you," you remind him. "And if—that is to say; _what_ I feel, I feel for _all_ of you."

Seizing the moment—and capitalizing on the sense of calm that seems to have settled his nerves—you lean forward, running the back of your knuckles along the stubble of his jaw.

"You wanted me to _ask_ before you'd kiss me again," you hum, crowding him. "Consider this my formal request."

You capture his bottom lip between your own, tender and tentative, waiting for him to respond and confirm you haven't overstepped your bounds, that he really is _ready_.

He exhales hard through his nose, pushing forward, his hand suddenly tangled in your hair. He rolls over you, legs straddling your hips, and crushes his mouth to yours. You drink _deeply _of him, lower body rolling up against his, eliciting an almost pained groan from him as he rocks forward.

He pulls back, shaking with the effort it takes, pressing a hand against the side of your face, thumb brushing your bottom lip.

"Knew you had it in you, Barnes," you tease, letting your tongue dart out against the tip of his finger. He grunts, clenching his jaw, the muscles of his arm bunching as he slides his hand around to cup the back of your head.

"Want me to stop?" he manages. "I know you don't think I'm—"

His train of thought is catastrophically derailed when you hook your legs around his waist, locking your ankles against the small of his back and dragging him forward. He swears, obscene and unfettered, and once again his body moves against yours, the rough pull of his jeans causing all kinds of exquisite friction.

"I've had about a thousand notions far worse than this," you answer. "We _should_ wait until you're well enough to think clearly about what you want, but—"

"I can't think clearly around you," he says in a rush, and this time you meet him halfway; all teeth, and tongues, the urgency of the moment sweeping you both far away from the safety of the shore.

He sits up, careful to keep most of his weight off of you, relying on the strength of his legs, and pulls his shirt off. For the briefest moment, you see him hesitate, eyes darting to the metal socket.

"Don't," you warn. "None of that matters. Not the way you think it does. Not to _me_."

You scoot back until you have room pull yourself up into a sitting position, crooking a finger at him before spreading your arms out across the pillows on either side of you.

He moves forward, knees sliding against the sheets and the mattress beneath, and then his hand—broad and rough with callouses (and thank _God_ the serum doesn't fix those)—presses against your stomach, dragging up against your sweat-slick skin, caressing your body, inch by inch. The scales dissolve, absorbed back into your skin, forgotten and unwanted.

You suck in a harsh breath as his palm skims over your right breast, his thumb—still wet from your tongue—brushes your nipple.

"_Fuck_," you gasp, startled by the sudden ache that flares low in your belly, intense and almost painful, both arms curling around his neck. You fall forward a bit, head pressed against his chest.

"Tell me," he whispers roughly, and he moves his thumb again, right over the same spot.

"_Yessss_," you hiss, pressing your teeth into the skin of his neck. "Barnes—"

He rumbles, deep in his chest, twisting his hand in your hair again. "Again," he growls, and the challenge in his voice is belied by clear notes of anxiety. Some part of him still doesn't believe.

"I want _this_," you tell him, leaning up and licking a stripe over the spot on his neck that you'd been worrying with your teeth moments before. "I want _you_."

He stares, and for a moment, his expression is unreadable. "You're real?" he asks. "You're really here?"

You shove him back with a strength you usually keep well-disguised, then press against his chest until he catches on and lays back, legs stretched out, his head a few inches from the end of the bed. Your hands wander, tracing every line of muscle—and they're exposed more because he has so little body fat and less because he's in any kind of fighting shape—and his chest rises hard and fast as he gulps down air.

"I'm real," you promise, leaning over him to lick at the brutal scars that branch out from the metal grafted to his chest. He shivers and tries to slip his remaining hand between your mouth and his skin, but you nip at his fingers until he desists. "I'm really here, with you, and you're with me."

"Always," he moans, hips arching as your hands travel further down.

"Barnes," you pause, fingers hesitating just above his waistline. "If I do anything you don't like, you tell me to stop and I will."

"Fucking _don't stop_," he pants, twisting the sheets in his hand until they threaten to tear. "I haven't—God _dammit_, I'll fuckin' explode, I swear to _God_—"

"The mouth on you," you smirk, flicking the button of his jeans open and tugging the zipper down.

"I'll show you what this mouth can do in a minute," he threatens, lifting his hips as you drag his pants off, taking his boxer-briefs with them because _efficiency_.

_Well_, you balk mentally, taking a good, long(and _thick_) look at him. _That… is going to be a _bit _of a challenge._ Your abdomen clenches involuntarily and the coil in your gut tightens that much more. You exhale, and he thrusts once, shallow and strained, his eyes screwed shut.

"Easy," you gentle. "I've got you, soldier."

You scoot down, tapping your fingers against his knees until he takes the hint and lets them fall open, making room for you to shimmy between.

"You—" he shudders, grunting as you stroke your hands up his thighs, then back down again. "You don't hafta—"

"You're not the boss of me," you grin, leaning down and stretching out on all fours, looking up along the lean line of his torso as your mouth draws closer to the hard, weeping length of him. He sits up, bracing himself on his one good arm, a shade off-kilter without the support of his left.

"Jesus fucking _Christ_," he swears, hair mussed, eyes dark with lust. "Look at you_._"

You wrap one hand around the base of his cock, remaining still as he tries—and fails—to swallow a strangled shout of surprise, hips bucking against your palm, seeking more pressure, more relief, more of whatever you'll give.

You press your free hand against his waist, stilling his movements before giving a tentative squeeze with the other.

"_Please_," he groans, his entire body shaking with the effort it takes not to rut freely into your hand. "I need to—"

You stroke once and he curls forward, taking the sheets with him, before you slide wetted lips over the wide head and _suck_.

He comes apart with a roar, scalding and tasting of the ocean, and you've never been so happy to let yourself _drown_.

* * *

Barnes has his arm slung over his eyes, still breathing hard as you settle down against him after crawling back up the length of his body. He's shaking, and you try not to stare at the wet tracks trailing across his cheeks.

"Hey," you call softly, tugging at a damp curl of dark hair. "Talk to me, Barnes. You okay?"

He lifts his arm up just enough to make eye contact and nods once.

"Yeah," he says. "Been… Been a while. I wasn't allowed to—" He turns away, covering his eyes with his hand.

You kiss up along his shoulder blade, tracing patterns over the skin of his back as he composes himself.

"I wasn't sure I could," he finally says. "Worried they might have taken that from me, too. And I wanted—_so much_—with you. For you."

"We'll get 'round to it," you assure him. "There isn't a time table for this. You don't have any deadlines to meet, Darling."

"Darling?" he asks, dropping his hand from his face, unable to hide the little half-smile curling the edge of his lip upward.

"You'd prefer 'Snookums'? 'Baby'?"

He laughs and you drape yourself over him, tilting your head against his shoulder.

"No? 'Sweetheart,' perhaps? Or would you prefer—"

He flips over and pins you, and you can feel the hard, hot press of him against your stomach.

"Fuck's sake, Barnes, that was _fast_," you moan, glancing down between you.

"Serum," he grunts, his pupils dilated, tongue darting out between his teeth. "Or _you_. Probably you. _Definitely_ you, doll."

"What are you waiting for, then? Written invitation?" you tease, squirming rather suggestively. He bites his lip, hard enough to draw blood by the look of it, and shakes his head.

"I think I made you a promise," he says, slipping off the bed before wrapping his arm around your waist and dragging you toward the edge. He gets your legs around his shoulders, and keeps his right arm under you, lifting your hips up.

"Barnes," you whine, reaching for him. He leans forward and shivers when you rake your fingers through his hair, nails dragging against his scalp.

"Wanna get my mouth on ya," he says, blue eyes trained on you with an intensity that is almost overwhelming. "Wanna make you feel what I feel—"

"I do," you whimper. "I swear, I do—"

He pulls his arm from beneath you, dropping your hips slightly, and spreads your legs wide, breathing hard as he ducks down, _so_ close. His fingers brush against your lips, the rough pads lighting you up with electricity you swear you can _taste_.

"Oh my God," you swear, turning your head to bite at the sheets bunched around your head. "_James_, please…"

He inhales harshly at the invocation of his first name, then presses his nose against your overheated skin, nudging your clit, the wide expanse of his tongue dragging fully across your aching cunt.

You lose all sense of time as he licks into you, lazy and deep, pausing only to draw your hard nub into his mouth, teasing with a hint of teeth as he drives you past the point of coherency.

You scream when he presses a thick finger inside, barely processing the words that spill out of his mouth; praise and encouragement, promises—both sweet and depraved—of what he plans to do; how he wants to break you apart, untie everything that holds you together, and leave you a shaking, blissful _mess_.

"Almost there, beautiful," he tells you, every line of your body strained, taut as a bowstring. Distantly, you wonder what he'd be like healthy and fit, and just as distantly, you're fairly sure he'd fucking _kill you_ because even operating at half-strength, you're convinced that he's going to ruin you for life.

He adds another finger and you thrash wildly against the bed as he bends them both, _pressing_, while his thumb circles your clit and he pants against your hip.

"Just a little more," he grunts, twisting his fingers and you actually (_holy fuck_)black out for a few seconds as you clench around him, coming harder than you thought possible from fingers and mouth alone.

He sits back and pulls you with him, gathering you into his lap. You feel boneless, the aftershocks of your orgasm still zipping through your nervous system, bright and beautiful, and it's almost like flying. He latches his mouth onto your left breast, palming its opposite as you slowly come down.

You lean back, giving him more access, reaching down between you to touch him. He hisses and nips at you, releasing his hold temporarily to pull your head against his.

"I've dreamed about this," he whispers, trading breath back and forth as you both grind against eachother. He slides between your folds, the head of his cock nudging your core, then your clit, over and over, sending delicious spikes of pleasure racing up your spine and twisting the coil in your belly ever tighter. "You're so hot inside," he gasps, voice breaking at the end. "So wet. I want—I _need_ you. Need to be—"

"Inside," you groan, throaty and hoarse.

He needs no further encouragement, helping to lift you up as you balance over him. The press of fevered, slick flesh against your entrance elicits another full-bodied shudder. You sink down, slowly, sucking in your breath as his thick cock presses against your inner-walls, spreading you wide, laying you bare as white-hot pleasure rips through your body, setting every nerve ending alight, causing you to cry out as he inches forward.

"_Nngh,_ fuck," Barnes growls, shaking with the strain of holding back, of going _slow_ as you adjust to him. You lick your lips, struggle to catch your breath as you accept the entire, iron-hard length of him, until—finally—he's fully seated.

You whine, forehead pressed to his, holding on to him as if your life depends on it (it just might). You can't ever remember feeling so _full_, trembling and wanting so badly to let him fuck up into you, wild and savage and _perfect_. Barnes seals his mouth over yours, slow and languorous, his tongue moving against yours, breaths mingled.

He breaks away as you shudder around him, your inner muscles rippling, and he hardens _that much more_ inside you.

"_James_," you whisper against his mouth, raising yourself up as much as you can without separating from him completely.

"I can't—" he starts, but then you drop back down, head tipped back, spine arching. He digs his fingers into your hip, snarling up at you as you start to draw away again. Suddenly, you're on your back as he tips you both over. He drags both of your hands up above your head, holding them there so that you're stretched out beneath him.

He grinds his hips against yours, setting off another volley of sparks along your frayed and frantic nerve endings.

"Need to let go," he rasps in your ear, voice having dropped an entire octave. "God, you feel _so_ good."

As you had at the start of all this, you wrap your legs around his waist, taking him impossibly deeper, causing both of you to cry out as he slips forward a bit more.

"Can't—" he says, staring wide-eyed at you, then where you're joined. "I need—"

"_Move!"_ you beg, knowing full-well what he means and unable to explain that you want the same. Maybe later, when cobbling together that many words doesn't seem like such a Herculean task.

He draws back again, the drag of him against your sensitive flesh setting off a chain of uninterrupted curses until even _those_ fail you and you're reduced to a keening whine that leaves your flushed and shaking.

He snaps his hips forward, driving _hard_, a shout of his own muffled against your shoulder. He releases his hold your wrists, reaching back to grip your leg, hitching it higher as he rocks forward, each time the head of his cock bottoming out, nudging some other hidden cluster of nerves that overloads every sense you have until you swear you've been reduced to nothing but pure, distilled _sensation_.

The heat and tension, the pleasure-pain you're not sure there's a word for, builds and builds, inexorably, threatening to destroy you completely.

"James!" you cry out, leaning up and pressing both hands against the sides of his face, fingers winding in his hair. His eyes lock with yours, both of you trembling and sweating, bodies rocking and being rocked in turn. Every muscle in his body seems devoted to this one purpose. Without warning, his pace increases, his rhythm stutters.

"With me," he manages, fingers squeezing the taut line of your leg where he still holds it against his side. "_With me_."

You nod once and he groans, dipping his head again and _slamming_ home. You scream, squeezing around him as your inner muscles contract, as endorphins and adrenaline and _lightning_ race through your system.

He gives one final, ragged shout—your name, you think—and then locks up, rigid, flooding your insides with warmth and _wet_, and he fucks through his orgasm, fucks _you_ through yours, even as every nerve in your body burns up, is reduced to ashes, your vision whiting out.

* * *

You spend the rest of the afternoon making up for lost time. Barnes takes you hard on your hands and knees, before you even leave the bed; then against the desk-sculpture-thing; you attempt to make it to the bathroom to shower but you're overcome and shove him down onto the floor, riding him until his eyes roll back in his head.

Then, when you _reach_ the shower, he lifts you up against the tile wall and fucks you with long, languid strokes, mouth firmly attached to your breasts.

"Let's never leave this room," you murmur afterwards, curled around him on the bathroom floor, too tired to get up, and not entirely sure that you'd be able to focus on anything before the desire to have him inside again, wringing out another orgasm, overwhelms you.

"Fine by me, doll," he answers, eyes shut, fingers dragging through your wet hair. "I don't think my legs work anymore, anyway."

You laugh, turning into him.

"You're pretty good at that, you know," you observe, tweaking one of his nipples (which, as it turns out, are _very_ sensitive).

"I've been known to show a girl a good time now-and-again," he chuckles.

"Is that so?" you ask, mock-indignation dripping from your words. "Well aren't you a regular _Don Juan?"_

He cracks his eyes open, studying your face for a long time.

"None of 'em hold a candle to you. They were fun, but not the kind of fun that _lasts_, y'know?"

"Oh, Barnes! I think you might _actually _be growing up!"

"You _minx_," he laughs, and he leans down to kiss you. He pulls back after several moments, brow furrowing. "We, uh, we didn't exactly use protection. Um, I don't even have—No one's brought it up and I'm not sure where Steve's at to consider _askin'_—

"Stop," you giggle. "I can't get pregnant unless I choose to, and I don't get sick. Shape-shifter, remember?"

"It affects even _that_?" he asks, brows so far up his forehead they've practically merged with his hairline.

"Even that."

"How?"

"You really in the mood for a biology lesson, Barnes?" you tease, sticking your tongue out at him. "Because I can and _will_ bore you to tears."

"I guess not," he sighs, pulling you closer against him. "Is that, uh, is that something you want? Someday?"

"What, kids?" you ask.

"Yeah. I mean, I'm not sure how I feel about 'em, but I'm not sure how I feel about the Kardashians, either. You—I'd imagine you might have given it some thought. Don't most women-?"

"Some do," you confirm, nodding your head. "And it's not as though I _haven't_ considered it. It's just not a priority for me right now, that sort of internal debate. I want to get Ana straightened out at school, I need to find a residency program that will take me now after my sabbatical, there's the team, _you_… The world is a crazy, damn-near inhospitable place. I don't know if I have room in my head for one more thing to worry about."

"Christ, my sisters used to talk about their future husbands and future kids all the time. What he'd do for a livin', how many they'd have, their _names_, how they'd get a nice brownstone over near Park Slope, room to spread out, not like our walk-up."

"You miss them?"

"The girls?" he sighs, hand tightening reflexively on your shoulder. "Every day. I should have—a brother is _supposed_ to be there for his sisters, y'know? Keep the riff-raff from sniffing around, set an example, keep 'em safe, and drive 'em crazy."

He runs his fingers up and down the bare skin of your arm, eyes a bit distant.

"We had fun together, and they liked Stevie, even though most of the neighborhood kids were vicious little _snakes _when it came to him. I thought maybe one of 'em would take a shine to him some day and we'd be brothers for _real._" He laughs, but there's no warmth to it. "Stupid."

"I think that was a lovely dream to have," you tell him, leaning up and kissing his jaw. "They were lucky to have you as a brother, and I'm sure they thought about you often."

"I hope not," he sighs. "I hope they just moved on with their lives."

"We can look all of that up, you know? I bet you have great-nieces and nephews still around, maybe even some of your sisters' children. Once we have everything straightened out with the government—"

"No," he says, and the way he says it leaves no room for argument. "If they want to meet me, I'll do whatever they ask. But I'm not going to go bothering them, complicating their lives. You have any idea how fuckin' _weird_ it would be? Sitting with two generations of my family that are technically younger than I am, while I'm like _this?"_

"Okay," you soothe. "Whatever you want. It's your family."

"I know you don't mean to—" he rolls toward you, burying his head into the crook of your neck. "I don't deserve you, doll. I really don't."

"What did I say about you not being the boss of me?" you laugh, scratching the back of his neck until he relaxes against you. "I'm not awarded to people based on some kind of _point system_. You didn't win me. I'm choosing you, just as you're choosing me. No more complicated than that."

He groans and shifts his hips, and you are _damn near_ dumbfounded as you watch his cock harden—a_gain_.

"You've got to be kidding me," you giggle, feeling his smile against your skin. "I think you may have a medical condition, Barnes."

"You're a doctor," he says, glancing up at you, his gaze heated and focused. "_Fix me_."

"Well," you huff. "I _did_ take an oath."

* * *

Later (_much_ later, but who's keeping track?), you finally manage to get yourself cleaned up and dressed. Barnes retreats to the bed, watching you with heavy-lidded eyes, utterly sated and unable to keep a smug smile from his lips.

"Going out?" he asks, watching as you pull on a pair of utilitarian boots. "I thought Stark put the Tower on lockdown."

"He'll let me out for this, not that he could actually _stop_ me if I wanted to leave badly enough," you explain.

"Can I ask where you're going?"

"Gotta see a man about a dog," you wink, tying the laces tight and tucking your black BDUs snug around your ankles. Even with the heavy-duty material shielding you from contamination, truth be told, you'd really rather be heading out in a hazmat suit.

Sewers are _disgusting_ places after all.

* * *

Notes:

I SWEAR I DON'T KNOW HOW THIS HAPPENED.

First attempt at smut. Uh. Be gentle?

Come talk to me on tumblr: Search for Cosmosisjane! This site is mean about links and website addresses :C

Update 5/31: Went back and addressed the "why isn't she growing scales instead of sitting there all awkward and naked?" issue. Sorry for the oversight! :O

***I know I'm taking a risk by posting this "type" of chapter here. I've had accounts here since the good ole days, when adult-themed fiction was allowed and no one accused you of trying to "corrupt the youth." So if this isn't your cup of tea, that's fine. There are a ton of other stories you can go lose yourself in. This one is mine. Keep your hands off of it.


	17. Chapter 17

"Seeking to forget makes exile all the longer; the secret of redemption lies in remembrance."

-Richard von Wiezsaecker

* * *

"Under no circumstances are you to leave this building without an escort," Hill says, tapping away at her Stark-issue tablet.

"I assume I don't need to remind you that I neither work for Tony Stark nor require so much as an unlocked door to actually leave," you drawl, swiveling back and forth in the chair set before her desk. "I'm only sitting here because I was asked to be polite."

"You were shot in the face less than twenty-four hours ago," she sighs, finally putting the tablet down. "Humor me."

"Based on your refusal to provide more than a first name, we have to assume that this person you're going to meet —Frank—is dangerous," Romanoff adds, glancing at you from her adjacent chair. She and Barton were summoned to this impromptu (and wholly unnecessary) meeting with the head of Stark's security division as well.

"That depends," you muse, staring up at the ceiling.

"On?"

"The severity of the crimes one has committed."

"You're like, what? Twelve years old?" Barton asks.

"Oh, this one has jokes," you chuckle.

"I'm sayin'… Maybe don't be so eager to run off on your own when you can take reinforcements. Adults operate in teams when they can."

"Frank would blow up the sewers before allowing you two to get within shouting distance."

"Oh yeah, sounds totally safe. Definitely go alone," the archer huffs, looking to Natasha and Hill for support. "Who the fuck is this guy?"

"A valuable source of information," you answer. "If shit is going down, Frank will have a bead on it, or he'll know who to ask."

"The problem remains; we cannot allow you to go off on your own. Not with the hornet's nest that is HYDRA stirred up and spoiling for a fight," Hill insists, settling back in her chair. "I can make a phone call to Professor Xavier if—"

"That's your plan? You're going to tattle on me if I don't play by your rules?" you scoff. "Look. If they go with me, they can't _go with me_, you understand? Not all the way, not to the actual meeting."

"Do you know where he is?" Hill asks.

"Last time his name came up, I heard he was working out of Hell's Kitchen, or planning to relocate there in the near future."

"And this information came from…?"

"Confidential," you snap.

Barton actually giggles, picking at the dirt under his fingernails. "Have we made you a member of the team yet?" he asks, still smirking and pointedly avoiding Natasha's disapproving glare. "You'd fit right in."

"It's been suggested," you scowl, returning your attention to Hill. "Do we have a deal? These two muppets escort me as far as the sewer entrance; then they stand by while I track my contact down and hopefully convince him to help identify our sniper from the hotel roof."

Hill looks between Romanoff and Barton, both of whom shrug in unison. "Once they drop you off, you have two hours to complete your mission before I send them in to pull you out. I don't care what you think this lunatic will do if he's discovered."

"Fine. Am I free to go now?"

"Of course," the dark-haired woman smiles. "Stark Industries would never attempt to illegally detain a private citizen or prevent them from leaving the premises against their will."

"Not without throwing enormous piles of money at them first," you mutter, recalling the several hundred civilians being kept under lock-down in the Tower along with all of Stark's staff.

"We wrote them checks, actually," Hill corrects with a sly smile of her own. "I'll call down to the garage for a vehicle."

You roll your eyes and push out of your chair, leaving it spinning lazily behind you.

"We'll meet you in the lobby," Natasha says. "Barton and I need to suit up and hit the armory. Shouldn't be more than ten minutes."

"Copy that," you sigh. "But do me a favor and tell Barton to leave the bow and arrows at home, yeah?"

"Why?" Romanoff asks, brows pulled together.

"In the event that you do need to launch a rescue, I'd rather not listen to Frank's hysterical laughter right before we all die."

* * *

"So," Clint says, sliding into the back of the SUV with you. He doesn't elaborate further, choosing to let that single word hang in the air, proffered like the verbal grenade it most certainly is.

"Ask me an actual question and I may respond with an answer."

"Can you turn into an octopus?" he asks. Natasha groans from the driver's seat, starting the truck and pulling out of the underground garage.

"You need to stop watching _Blue Planet_ when you can't sleep, Clint," she chides.

"An octopus," you repeat.

"Yeah," he shrugs. "I think they're neat."

"Good lord. Yes, I can shapeshift into an octopus. Wouldn't be particularly useful though, except maybe to hide. Their brain structure is so different from our own that I'd have minimal-to-no self-awareness carry through during the transformation," you tell him. "They're clever animals, but their intelligence just doesn't translate well. Round hole, square peg."

"So you'd be stuck like that?" he asks, wiggling his fingers in a gesture you can only guess is meant to mimic octopus arms.

"Not forever, no. Eventually, I'd run out of energy and wouldn't be able to maintain the form. I'd spontaneously shift back to my own body, which would create a whole host of new problems."

"Such as?"

"Well, if I reverted at anything below four-hundred feet of water, I'd be flirting with nitrogen narcosis or oxygen toxicity. If I were deeper than twenty-two miles, my bones would be crushed by the pressure. For most people, those are all lethal events."

"But it wouldn't be in your case?" Natasha asks, turning her head slightly.

"No, just extremely unpleasant. I'd survive by adapting to the environment, self-cannibalizing to provide myself enough energy to keep vital systems running, but if I strained that safety net for too long, I'd be reduced to little more than my reptile brain. I can come back from that, but it takes a while and I'm not quite right—psychologically—without help from the Professor."

"That's awesome," Barton says, smacking the back of Natasha's seat. "Makes me feel a little minor league, though. Well, more than usual."

"Speak for yourself," Natasha answers.

"Could you imagine if we'd had someone like her in Kiev?" he asks. "Or São Paolo? Would have had those missions wrapped in hours."

"With fewer casualties," Romanoff agrees, eyes flicking to the rearview mirror and catching your own in the reflection.

"So that's how this entire ride is going to go?" you ask, slumping in your seat.

"It's been known to work," Barton smiles, tilting his head toward the former KGB assassin.

"Answer is still no. I get enough grief at home for spending as much time down here with you lot as it is. Not going to twist the knife by splitting my loyalties in an official capacity."

"Where exactly are we taking you once we get to Hell's Kitchen?" Natasha asks, abruptly changing the subject.

"Get me west of Tenth Avenue, near the Hudson Yards. I can access the sub-surface tunnels and sewers from the Amtrak corridor. I'll work my way east from there."

"Port Authority or MTA gonna be a problem?" Barton asks. "We can make some calls."

"No. They're used to runaways and homeless types coming and going. No one will bat an eye at one more transient."

"You're awfully well-dressed for a hobo," he observes.

"Worst case, they'll assume I'm some kind of urban explorer off to photograph the city's ghoulish underbelly."

"This is your rodeo," he says, settling back in his seat. "You call the shots."

"Mmm," you hum, tapping your fingers against the door panel.

After several minutes of uninterrupted silence, Barton clears his throat. "Man, this neighborhood is still wrecked from the Chitauri invasion. For a minute there, the property values were so low I was thinkin' about buying in."

"With what money?" Natasha asks. "You spent all of your inheritance on that rattrap in Bed-Stuy."

"I have other investments," he protests weakly. "It isn't all pizza and trick arrows, y'know."

"Better not be," she answers. "What with you already planning on a third."

"They want for nothing," Barton sniffs. "Except more time with me, I s'pose."

You tune out the rest of their banter, not in the mood to try to figure out what the conversation is about and—quite honestly—not that interested in the first place.

Instead, your thoughts turn to the last time you'd actually spoken to Frank face-to-face. He'd been in bad shape, but that was nothing new. Pretty much every interaction—stretching all the way back to your initial meeting—was due to Frank's penchant for collecting bullets and lacerations as if they were going out of style (and there'd been that one time the knife had still been inside, the serrated edge caught on bone). You didn't speak much outside of explaining what you were doing, and why, and _yes, Frank, now would be a good time to put the Wild Turkey down, you sodding alcoholic._

It isn't a friendship by any means. Frank doesn't have friends, just a rough collection of people he finds useful on occasion, who he doesn't hesitate to use if need be; all of which is perfectly fine by you because you have absolutely no qualms about using him right back.

That last time had been pretty bad though. Collapsed lung, multiple penetrating wounds, crushed pelvis, and his left hand shattered almost beyond repair. It had taken a week's worth of work to get him stable, and another week of scolding and restraints to keep him confined to a bed while his body healed. He really needed to be in a full-body cast for six months at a minimum, _in a hospital_ (and why do you always have to stress that to people?), and then undergo years of physical and occupational therapy, but any time you started to suggest as much he'd reach for his Benelli M3 and you _shut the hell up_ because having an entire limb blown off is not an experience you particularly enjoy.

He'd been fighting a fever through most of his convalescence, and no matter what meds you pumped into his system, he continued to burn, low and steady, spiraling deeper and deeper into old memories better left forgotten, buried, and among the dead.

_Maria_.

He called out for her, over and over; for her and for their child. He screamed; rictus grin pulled so tight against his teeth he cut his lips, spat blood, and thrashed against the zip ties and braided nylon rope that kept him from completely tipping himself out of the cot.

You knew the story; everyone who knew Frank's name knew it, and anyone old enough to have watched the news the day his family had been slaughtered couldn't quite condemn what he'd done to the people responsible, even if they couldn't quite condone it either.

_Maria, Maria, Maria_.

So he continued to deteriorate; fighting you even though he wasn't fully aware of your presence, and short of stabbing him with a syringe full of sedatives (and you weren't sure his heart could take that), nothing you came up with was able to calm him down or draw him out of the nightmares.

Nothing, that is, save_ one _thing.

It had been cruel, in its way, but you were at peace with that so long as it worked. Once the transformation was complete, once he recognized the face you wore as the one he loved, he'd gone easy, compliant, sweet and soft, so eager to please, to make her smile, and to hear her say she was proud of him. He'd asked for the kid, but you couldn't justify taking the charade that far, and had remained in the dead woman's skin just long enough for Frank's fever to break.

You left him a small pharmacy's worth of steroids, pain-killers, antibiotics, and a few anti-virals, along with relevant instructions and a brief note:

_FRANK,_ _Stay hydrated (WITH WATER),_ a_nd try to keep off your feet as much as possible. Call if you need to, or reach out to Weasel if you don't want to be that direct. He's Wade's man, but you can trust him to deliver a message._ _Be safe, you nutter._

In the years since, he'd maintained strict radio silence. All the information you had on his current whereabouts had been gleaned from the assortment of anti-hero misfits you occasionally patched up or ran into while working with the team. The X-Men weren't in the business of policing the superhero or vigilante communities—not unless someone did something catastrophically stupid or violent—which provided a pretty deep pool to draw from when it came to developing contacts and sources in the kinds of places and amongst the sorts of people the rest of the team didn't care to mix with. Not openly, anyway.

Based on what you know of him, you figure Castle has kept to the same pattern he's favored in the past; maintaining a base of operations in some stinking, fetid sewer, booby-trapping every entrance and exit, and remaining on the lookout for uninvited guests snooping around. Locked and loaded, crazy as a shithouse rat.

"That's a serious look you're wearing," Barton says, interrupting your protracted train of thought. "Anything you want to share with the rest of the class?"

"Only that I'm not exactly looking forward to this," you grumble.

"You positive you don't want us to tag along?" he asks. "Promise we won't embarrass you in front of your friend."

"Either of you secretly immortal or impervious to bullets?" you ask.

"Nope," Barton answers, shaking his head. "How 'bout you, Nat? You been holding out on me?"

"Negative, Ghost Rider," she says, making a quick right turn through a busy intersection.

"Then yeah, I'm positive."

* * *

The tunnels are, as anticipated, the stuff of nightmares (your nightmares, specifically). It's not like you can pick up any diseases, parasites, or infections, but the thought of what you're slogging through, the name of the things _squishing_ under your boots, and the outrageous stink of the place makes your skin crawl all the way up to your scalp.

And you haven't even made it to the sewer lines yet.

_Fuck you, Frank. Fuck you right up your pinched, pickled asshole._

You pass by clumps of homeless men and women, micro-tribes gathered around trashcans smoking with burning garbage, their ramshackle huts assembled from pieces of broken wood, discarded cubicle panels, shopping carts, soiled tarps, and cardboard scraps, all lining the walls of the tunnel. The shelters are ingenious, in their way, and you can't help but admire the resourcefulness of the people who put them together. It takes a great deal of ingenuity to survive on the edge of civilization like this, and the animal part of your brain takes note.

No one pays you much attention, though a few voices raise an octave or two; warnings instructing you to keep your distance. _This is mine_, the voices say, garbled by the bounce-back echo effect of the tunnel's acoustics. _Stay away_.

You keep your head down, keep your hands at your sides and visible to anyone watching. It's the least threatening posture you can assume while upright and walking, and you hope it translates.

You make it past the shanty town, deeper into the older, abandoned tunnels where the vagrants haven't spread yet. The standing water is deeper here, the rats more numerous, and the shadows longer and darker. The occasional clatter and squeal of trains rumbling by on neighboring active tracks makes your ears twitch. You move from tunnel to tunnel, using the access corridors that connect them, avoiding the work crews that patrol the functioning lines checking for any faults or weaknesses that might require repair.

What you need now is a way into the lower sewer tunnels. You reach out with your senses, listening for the rush of moving water, trying to discern the particular scent of organic waste from the more industrial stink of the nearby train yard.

In the end, it's your eyes that spot the entrance, aided by a helpful sign mounted on the concrete wall pointing the way down an adjacent passageway, along with the standard "AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY" warning emblazoned in chipped red enamel.

You take a deep breath; force yourself to ignore the acrid taste the air leaves sticking to your tongue, and head in the direction indicated.

* * *

"I don't even want to know," you sigh, studying the naked man squirming against his bonds, the chair he's tied to creaking and threatening to tip over.

"Then don't ask," Frank grumbles, tapping your shoulder with the muzzle of his rifle, indicating that you should turn and keep walking.

"Okay, I lied. I do want to know. What's this one done?"

"Pedophile," the older man answers. "Mr. Nguyen here has a thing for little boys—"

You grunt, scowling at the bound man as he shakes his head and pleads his innocence from behind the wad of trash stuffed behind his teeth.

"—under the age of four," Frank finishes, before thrusting one booted foot against the nearest leg of the chair, sending it and Nguyen toppling over into the muck.

"You're sure?"

"Positive."

That's enough for you. Frank's one-man crusade against what he considers the world's "filth" is pathological, but that pathology is very rigid and his standards are exacting. Anyone who finds themselves tied to a chair in The Punisher's den, facing certain death, undoubtedly deserves to be there. There's a part of you that feels a brief swell of pity for Nguyen, and it's the same part that believes everyone deserves a fair trial, competent representation, and equal treatment under the law.

But you also know how seriously fucked up the system is; that people like Nguyen walk away unscathed an awful lot of the time, and even when they do get locked up, there's usually a decent chance for parole with good behavior and a few strategically greased palms.

If Frank were threatening a guy over a dime bag or a snatched purse, you'd protest, maybe even get in between them. But this? This you will lose very little sleep over, if any.

"Why are you here?" Frank demands, shouldering past you as you reach what must be his workshop. There are a few long tables lined up along one curving wall, a collection of firearms in various states of assembly spread out on across them. There are banged up cabinets, all padlocked, that are probably full of _more_ guns and compatible ammunition. Further back, a door to what looks like a small maintenance room is open and you can just make out the shape of a cot and footlocker inside.

You sigh and take another long look around, letting him wait on you to answer. Frank's choice of location leaves a lot to be desired, but it's not quite as bad as you'd imagined. This part of the sewer system is old, and therefore broader than the more modern installations, having been hand dug back when the city was young, designed so that several men could walk abreast without their shoulders touching. The bricks arch in seemingly infinite rows overhead, on and on and on. The floor slopes gently down, a trickle of water making its way back toward the main line. Frank has built a massive platform that stretches over the trench, from one side of the tunnel to the other.

"I can't believe I'm going to say this, but I think it's an improvement over the last place you laid your head," you finally reply.

"You never saw the last place I laid my head," Frank sneers. "I move around."

"Fair enough," you sigh, turning slowly on your heel to face him. "How've you been?"

"Busy."

"I take it everything healed up fine since our last meeting."

He grunts again and turns his back to you, dropping the rifle he'd greeted you with about a half mile into your trek through the sewers onto one of the tables. "You didn't come here to check up on me," he rumbles, finally turning around and leaning back against the workbench. He crosses his arms over his chest and stares at you like he's sizing you up for a fight. Like he's angry. With you.

_Shit_.

"Um," you swallow thickly, shifting your weight from one leg to the other. "I take it you remember—"

"Yeah."

"I thought maybe the fever had—"

"No."

"Frank," you start, taking a step forward, embarrassed and ashamed for what you'd done to him all those years ago. "I was only trying to—"

"If I thought for a second you'd done it for any other reason than because you felt you _had_ to, I'd have fed you a couple M67 grenades back there," he thumbs over his shoulder toward the yawning mouth of the tunnel, "and then thrown whatever was left into an incinerator."

"That's… disturbingly specific."

"I've had a lot of time to think," he replies, his voice flat and deep and cold as the Arctic Ocean.

"You were dying," you offer, wincing at how reedy your voice sounds in your own ears. "And you're so bloody stubborn, wouldn't listen to a thing I was saying, wouldn't sit still, not even for stitches. You kept breaking things, ruining splints and pulling your IV line out, and I just—"

"What the fuck do you want? I have work to finish here," he interrupts, gesturing at Nguyen, who is desperately trying to wiggle free of his restraints but only managing to drag the rickety chair further into the muck.

"I need a favor."

"This have anything to do with the Village sniper?"

"So you heard," you sigh, joining him at the table. He points at a pile of newspapers nearby, stacked almost hip-high, moldy at the bottom and not much better at the top.

"Read about it this morning," he says, looking at you sidelong, jaw clenching tight. "Wasn't me."

"I never thought it was," you answer, offering a weak smile. It's actually kind of endearing that he was worried you might have suspected him of such a thing. You wonder what that means about how he categorizes you in his head; if you're more than just someone he might find useful in a tight spot.

"What the fuck are you doing hanging around those people for?"

"You have something against Captain America?"

"No, not him," he says with a vehemence that sort of startles you. "Captain Rogers is good people, one of the best. But the other one, Romanoff, she's trouble. And Tony Stark is—" He just shakes his head, eyes gone hard.

"He's an asshole, but not without a few redeeming qualities," you interject. "I had him pegged as a self-absorbed prat, but he's not what you'd expect based on his public persona. Hidden depths and all that."

"You sleeping with him?"

"Don't be disgusting."

He smirks then glances over your shoulder towards Nguyen, who has once again started intermittently sobbing and crying for help in spite of the gag. "Who was the target?" he asks, still watching his captive, one hand drifting down to touch the knife strapped to his outer thigh. "Is the Captain okay?"

"He's fine, he wasn't even there when we came under fire. I took the bullet, but I wasn't the intended target."

"Romanoff," he says, then shrugs. "Long list of people who would love to see her dead."

"Not her either, not really. She just got in the way, same as me, and then had the poor luck to find herself in the guy's crosshairs."

"And you saved her."

"I intercepted the bullet with my skull and most of my brain, yes."

"You're an idiot," he grumbles. "So who was he after?"

"I can't actually say," you wince. "But—!"

"Fuck off," he pushes away from the workbench and stalks over to Nguyen, righting the chair before cracking the captive man across the face. "Another peep out of you, you fucking pervert, and I'll take that gag out just so I can cut out your tongue and feed it to you."

"It's not really important who the target was," you argue, remaining behind at the workbench. "I need information about the shooter. Like who the hell he is, for starters."

"I'm not a mercenary," Frank throws over his shoulder as he drags the chair—with Nguyen in it—back up onto the platform.

"I didn't say anything about hunting the man down," you sigh. "Or killing him. I need a name. An alias, at the very least."

"Other than the fact that he got the drop on you and busted your braincase open, what do you know about him? Anything?"

"Stark's people managed to dig one of the bullets out of the walls he hit while we made our escape," you tell him. "The ballistics report came back a match for an M21 SWS. Standard NATO rounds."

Frank nods, "It's what I'd use."

"Noted," you reply drily. "We managed to put together some composite satellite images from when he was shooting at us from the hotel roof."

You unzip your jacket and pull the unmarked envelope from one of the concealed pouches on the inside, offering it to Castle with no further preamble. He accepts without question and pulls the pictures out, flipping through them and then shrugging.

"Don't recognize him. Should probably pick a different insignia though. That one's mine."

"I'll be sure to pass that along if I ever find him," you huff. "Can you look into it for me? You have access to lower circles than I do, people who might have heard something."

He scowls, apparently insulted, and tosses the stack of pictures onto a nearby desk. "I'll ask around," he says, but you can tell he's just paying you lip-service. Maybe you should have let him believe that Cap had been the target after all.

"I saved your life," you remind him, knowing full-well just how thin the ice is beneath your feet.

"Didn't ask you to," he answers, but the steel has gone out of his voice. "I don't do favors."

"Then I'll buy your help if that's what it takes."

"Not a merc."

"Aware," you snap. "But there has to be something you want that you can't get on your own. More guns, _better_ guns. Things that explode, or—"

"You know what I want," he says, eyes shifting away from yours. "The _only _thing I want."

You blink stupidly, your shoulders hunching all the way up to your ears. "I'm at a loss here. Give us a hint."

"Be her."

"Her?"

He turns back around and pulls one of the desk drawers open, tearing through its contents until he finds what he's looking for and passes the small rectangle of glossy paper to you.

You unfold the photo, smoothing out the crease, trying not to think about how often he must take it out, how it smells faintly of whiskey, or how the surface around her face is dulled as if it were touched too often.

"I can't," you rasp, looking up at him then back at the picture of his dead wife.

"This is my price," Frank says, his voice pitched low in an attempt to cover up the desperation that somehow manages to bleed through. He steps over to one of the work tables and busies himself with whatever equipment he has stacked there, leaving you to consider your options.

"You know it wouldn't be real," you tell him. "I'd only _look_ like—"

"It's this or get the fuck out."

You look down at the picture again, holding it as gently as you would a butterfly, as if it might disintegrate in your hands at any moment. "I have two conditions," you tell him, feeling an uncomfortable lump forming in your throat. "And they're non-negotiable."

"I'm listening," he answers, turning his head slightly toward you.

"First, you keep your hands to yourself," you choke out, hating the heat rising in your cheeks. "I mean it, Frank. I will leave you a fucking eunuch if—"

"That's fair," he says without a hint of sarcasm. "And the second?"

"You never ask me to do this again."

He hesitates this time, looking down at his hands and at whatever bit of machinery they're holding. His brow furrows slightly, making him look older than he is.

"Well?" you ask, offering the photo back to him, suddenly feeling as if you've held on to it for too long. Strange, the things that get under your skin even when you're about to do something supremely creepy.

"Yeah, sure," he finally says, before abandoning the work bench and walking back over to Nguyen. "Let me take out this trash first."

For a second, you're worried he's going to kill the man right in front of you. It's one thing not to have a problem with the _concept_ of what Frank does, but you wouldn't exactly queue for a front row seat to an execution either. To your relief, Castle simply grabs the back of Nguyen's chair and drags him across the platform towards what passes for a bedroom. He hurls the bound man inside and slams the door shut, then locks it behind him.

He stalks over to you, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. He takes the still-proffered photo from you, and folds it carefully along the existing crease.

"Whenever you're ready," he says, voice flat.

The change is quick; people are easy to imitate. It's all superficial, all edifice; slightly higher cheekbones, fewer melanin cells in the irises, a few inches taller, more rounded hips. Stretch this, pinch that, shuffle a protein chain here, rearrange a few amino acids there. The amount of genetic variation from person-to-person, even people whose ancestors haven't crossed paths since the great migration out of Africa, is so infinitesimal, it's almost biologically irrelevant.

You finish the transformation in a matter of seconds, and you can see the weight lift from his shoulders, can see the exact moment when the careful control that colors all his movements with a kind of robotic precision evaporates, and he is as he was. _Before._

"Hey baby," you smile, your voice no longer your own.

"Maria," he breathes. "I've missed you so much."


End file.
